Dreams Start With Nightmares
by CelloDude8432
Summary: Sherlock? Capable of human emotion? No! At least that's what John thought. John used to be alone, with no one around to lift a finger to help him, but the mysterious man downstairs could calm John's raging nightmares with a smooth stroke of his hand. Even after living with him for years, could there be more to Sherlock Holmes?
1. Chapter 1

The moment his head hit the soft pillow and his eyes closed, John fell into a deep sleep. But almost instantly, the feather-like blankets became his battlefield.

_You fucking bastard!_ He heard. _You can never do anything right! We're going out on the streets!_ John's seven year old self whimpered as he hid behind the kitchen wall. It was late at night, when his parents thought he and Harry had already fallen asleep. Well, Harry had. John woken up to the sound of yelling and had come down to investigate.

Young John thought it'd be like a mystery novel, he'd brought his magnifying glass and pretended to creep down the stairs like a spy.

But what he heard struck him like a bolt of lightning. His mother, his kind, patient, beautiful mother was red faced and furious at a man he thought could do no wrong. The child sank down to a sitting position and listened, because he could not bring himself to run away. Yet the screams were more terrifying to him than any monster under his bed, for these monsters were real.

_I'm not the one at fault here! Bitch! _

The last word was spat out by a voice an unrecognizable voice.

_Get out! Leave! Don't ever come back here!_

Again, another unrecognizable voice. Who were these people in his house? Where were his parents, his loving, caring parents?

_Fine! I don't need you!_

John felt loud thumps of footsteps storming out the back door.

These mysterious people hadn't seen him.

But once the door slammed, he heard sobbing. Frantic, uncontrollable sobbing on the other side of the wall. It was heart wrenching, to hear such a beautiful voice shatter like glass.

John bowed his head and as the rhythm of the crying vibrated through his small, numb heart, he began to cry alongside this foreign woman. Silent tears streamed down his face, everything was dark and scary. He wanted to run outside, and see his father outside the garage saying he was just stargazing and ask John to look with him. They'd name the constellations, from left to right and laugh when John pointed out Peter Pan flying to Neverland.

But he knew that somewhere, in his old, red truck, Mr. Watson was crying to the same beats of this woman.

Where had his family gone?

* * *

The slow, beautiful melody ended and Sherlock lifted his bow off the strings. All was silent for a blessed second. No cars, no police sirens, no chatter, no sounds at all. He slowly opened his eyes and savored the precious moment in the middle of the night.

He had often felt this, these seconds of pure silence, and he knew that during these hours, time seemed to slow down. As if not wanting to break the moment, Sherlock breathed in slowly and a small smile crept onto his face.

However, the glorious time did not last long. From upstairs came a quiet, muffled thumping. Sherlock's eyes snapped open and his ears pricked up as a sound came through the floor of the room above him.

_John._

Ever so quietly, Sherlock made his way to the stairs and began to climb. Violin still in hand, the detective reached the top of the stairs and the entrance to his flatmate's bedroom.

"John?" Sherlock's voice was barely above a whisper.

Hearing no reply, he pushed open the door and found John tossing and turning, and grunting with what seemed like frustration in his sleep.

"John." Sherlock said again.

But John was in too deep of a sleep to hear Sherlock's low voice.

Sherlock stepped in, closing the door behind him as to not disturb John with the light from the hallway. Minutes passed with Sherlock standing next to John's bed, watching him as he flailed his arms wildly in his dream.

Sherlock's eyebrows were furrowed in frustration, not sure how to handle another human being, but wanting to help in every way possible.

Finally, when the grunts became whimpers, Sherlock got an idea.

He raised his left arm with a wooden instrument in his left hand, and began his soft tune. The song blanketed John and wrapped around him with warmth. It was like lying in a field of soft grass during the spring time out in the country. Time slowed down and enveloped the listener with captivating wonder as the melody created sunshine for John on his bloody battlefield.

Sherlock Holmes played with passion, each finger placed with care, feeling that if he got even the slightest note wrong, the sun would disappear and the gray clouds would come to bring rain and thunder and lightning on this beautiful scenery.

John's face smoothed out with content, sighing as the warm song comforted him.

On the ending note, that crystal clear note, John cracked open a sleepy eye.

An arm reached out and tugged at Sherlock's loose pants, and at the same time John mumbled something. That something was soft. So soft that even with his excellent senses, the detective couldn't hear it.

Sherlock lowered himself so that his face was level to John's and he simply said, "Yes, John?" in the same soft voice.

This time, the voice was clearer, but still soft, and it said, "Stay with me? Please?"

"Alright."

* * *

Young John cried and cried and cried. Sobs racked his small body and his hands were clenched in fists. Suddenly, he felt a familiar presence standing above him. John couldn't make out the face, but he knew he could trust this man.

"John," He said, "It's time for bed."

The voice, _that_ voice. Could it be? Was it really true?

Seven year old John stood up quickly. He stepped hesitantly closer to the man.

It was!

John smiled through his tears and grabbed the hand of the man.

"Come on dad! You have to read me a bed time story!" He said laughing.

"Oh alright," The man's face appeared and the loving expression could warm anyone's heart.

The pair reached the bedroom and John opened the door while dragging his father by his hand.

John suddenly took an intake of breath.

His mother. Sitting in the chair next to his bed.

Oh no, what was going to happen?

He expected the worse, but his mother surprised him.

"Hi honey!" She said brightly, getting up to kiss him on the cheek, "I've been waiting for you, John; Mummy has a new song for you."

John's eyes widened and all doubt and unhappiness seemed to melt off him.

"But you have to get into bed first," His father's gruff voice added.

John quickly climbed into his green-with-red-fire-trucks bed and settled in as his parents sat on the edge.

Once everything was settled, his mother began to sing.

Oh, she had a glorious voice. It was like a violin, beautiful and clear and high. The best thing was, she sang with passion and John loved that about his mother. But the song was a whole other story; it was soft and slow and cast a warm feeling all around John. There was no other way to describe it other than it was like a sunny spring day.

Just as young John was drifting off to sleep, he reached out and grabbed his father's hand and whispered, "Daddy?"

"Yes, John?"

"Stay with me? Please?"

"Alright."


	2. Chapter 2

"Alright, John. I'm off to bed." Sherlock announced, setting down his beaker filled with…liquid and pulled off his goggles.

"Bed?" John looked up, bewildered, "It's 9:30. _I'm_ not even going to bed yet."

"I haven't slept for four days now, and I believe it is starting to affect my brain functions." Sherlock walked over to the armchair John was sitting in and nodded his head, "Goodnight."

The look of confusion still sat on John's face and after a moment, he recollected himself and said, "Well then, goodnight Sherlock. Sleep well."

John watched the wrinkled purple shirt retreat through the hallway and into a room on the left. He shrugged and went back to reading his newspaper, trying to savor these precious moments without the tinking of Sherlock's vials and glasses.

It was marvelous, really, the silence.

John sighed with content and closed his eyes to relax, tipping his head back and resting it on the smooth leather of the chair. He almost fell asleep like that; it was just so peaceful and calm.

But no sooner had the clock turned 10:00, a soft, unrecognizable sound was heard from somewhere in the hallway.

It was a quiet rustling, as if someone was moving around, agitated.

John slowly opened an eye and sighed. _Sherlock, I thought you were going to bed. _He stood up, the doctor's back aching. _I wonder how many experiments you have going on there. Well I'm about to find out. _

Walking across the sitting room to the hallway, John was careful to be as quiet as possible, although Sherlock could probably hear him a mile away.

"Sherlock? No experiments, I thought you were going to bed," John knocked softly on the door.

Seconds went by with no response. Sighing again, John pushed open the door.

"Sher-"

John's eyes suddenly widened and he breathed in sharply. Sherlock was curled up in a ball, his knees pulled up against his chest and his arms wrapped tightly around them. The blanket looked like it was thrown across the room, it was strewn across the floor, letting Sherlock shiver through his thin pyjamas.

Sherlock's knuckles were white and his face was screwed up, in what seemed like pain. Pain and frustration. It looked like the pain and frustration was getting to him, Sherlock was shivering, and it didn't look like it was from the cold.

"Sherlock," John whispered, "Sherlock are you alright?"

No answer. Sherlock still clutched himself with such force, it was unnerving. Occasional grunts came from Sherlock, but it was as if the sounds were trying to hold back a scream.

John sat down on the edge of the bed and moved his hand slowly towards Sherlock. He tensed when John placed his hand on Sherlock's shoulder, but eventually relaxed as John's warm hand laid there gently. Sherlock was still shaking, but a little less so than before.

It was dark and John could barely see Sherlock's face, but he kept his kind gaze on Sherlock.

Once John was sure Sherlock was comfortable with his touch, John moved his hand onto Sherlock's back, where he drew circles to comfort the grown man and his nightmares.

* * *

_What the fuck kind of name is 'Sherlock'?_ The other boys laughed maniacally as they pushed him to the ground. _Get up you son of a bitch! We're not done with you yet._

Sherlock was fifteen years old and his third school in four months. Why did people keep tormenting him?

He curled himself up in a ball with his knees pressed tightly against his chest. But the blows kept coming, punch after kick after shove. Sherlock knew there were going to be gruesome bruises if not wounds when he came up. He'd been in this position before, so he would know.

It was so excruciatingly painful, these boys were on the rugby and football teams, they were strong and they exploited it.

But no. He would not let it get to them. Sherlock had learned early on not to let them hear you scream, became the louder you scream, the harder the blows. He was shaking, like a rabid dog infested with fleas.

Suddenly the hits stopped. Just like that. And Sherlock heard the patter of feet running away, which meant someone else was coming.

_Hey! You kids! Get back here!_

Sherlock lifted his head slowly, the fear still wild in his eyes.

_It's alright son, they're gone now. _

Standing over Sherlock was a short man, with a thick mustache and not so recently cut sandy-blonde hair. He looked kind enough, with his laugh lines and bright smile and outstretched hand.

_Come along now, we've got to get you home._

Sherlock stood up and hastily straightened his clothes while his cheeks turned bright red. _Thank you sir, but I can get home by myself._

The man studied him for a moment then nodded in understanding. Putting a gentle hand on Sherlock's soldier, he said, _Parents don't know, do they?_

Fifteen year old Sherlock shook his head with even more embarrassment.

_Well that's alright then, just be sure to take care of yourself next time._ Then the man turned away and walked down the street towards the mass of skyscrapers.

Sherlock watched the mysterious man walk away. Suddenly, Sherlock was back on his bed at home, but seeing as this was a dream, it didn't bother him one bit.

Home.

What an awful word for Sherlock, but the only place he was safe.

Actually, the atmosphere was nice and comforting this time. There was a soft light coming from a table next to him, the heater was just turned on, and as the soft, freshly washed, warm sheets enveloped him, he felt someone's hand rubbing soothingly on his back.

_You need to tell me about these things, dear. _

A woman's voice called out calmingly to him.

_You're young, Sherlock. You can't have all these things bottled up inside you._

The circles traced on his back did not cease much to Sherlock's pleasure.

_There shouldn't be cuts and bruises all over you, dear. You need to enjoy your life, make some friends._

This statement Sherlock felt obliged to reply to.

_I can't. _

* * *

John sat there for a while, just calming Sherlock as one would calm a child. The doctor felt his own eyelids getting heavy, but he kept them open for Sherlock's sake. Right now, even though it was late, Sherlock needed him for once in his life and John wasn't letting this moment get away.

Sighing, John turned to look at Sherlock's sleeping face.

"I can tell you're keeping things from me, Sherlock," He said, "No grown man wets himself over nothing. You need to tell me things. Not keep things hidden inside you."

John felt Sherlock stir slightly.

Then, in the quietest murmur, Sherlock answered John.

"I can't."


	3. Chapter 3

"Morning." John said with a sleepy smile. He walked towards the kitchen to make his breakfast, "Coffee or tea, Sherlock?"

"Tea."

"Earl Grey or Chamomile?" John said with another tired voice.

"Either."

"Really, Sherlock. You've got to have preferences to make you seem more interesting if you're ever going to get anyone to work with you." The doctor sighed and chastised the detective.

"_You_ work with me. I believe that's enough." Sherlock's tone was still expressionless as his machine like eyes darted over the newspaper.

"Not in this age, no." Another sleepy smile from John.

Moments of silence passed with just a soft humming of a slow melody from John. Sherlock's head snapped up with recognition, but John didn't notice. The tune had come to him two days ago, and he couldn't get it out of his head.

Curious.

On the other side of the room, Sherlock lowered his head back into his newspaper but instead of reading every article in the paper for any detail about their new case, he was contemplating talking to John about…the events of last night.

Two more minutes ticked by, and the sizzle of omelets on the frying pan could be heard.

Then, Sherlock broke the silence.

"You were in my room last night, John."

The doctor's humming immediately ceased and Sherlock's eyes did not move from the spot he was looking at on the newspaper.

An awkward moment passed.

Then John cleared his throat and said, "What makes you say that?"

Another silence as the world came to a stand still waiting for Sherlock's answer.

"Thank you."

* * *

That same day:

He'd just come back from work, just to see Sherlock lying on his back on the sofa, where he had left him that morning.

It was late, and all John wanted to do was sit down and relax. But not a moment since he'd sat down, John heard Sherlock's voice.

"John?"

"Yes, Sherlock?"

"Pass me my phone."

John gave an exasperated sigh.

"It's right there, Sherlock. Literally one foot away from you."

"But John, you know I cannot be bothered whilst I am thinking."

"You're talking to me right now! How is that not being bothered?!"

"I am using my mind to think and speak to you." Sherlock remained where he was, his eyes still shut.

John threw his hands up in the air in defeat and walked over to the coffee table to hand Sherlock his phone.

However, the moment the phone touched Sherlock's hand, his eyes flew open and he sat up quickly from his lying down position on the couch to look at John.

"What happened?" Sherlock's deep, monotone voice was now accompanied with furrowed eyebrows to concern.

"What do you mean?" John gave his usual look of confusion.

"You're shaking." Sherlock said plainly.

"No, I'm not!" He didn't mean for it to sound as defensive as it was, "Ahem. No, I am not shaking, Sherlock."

"Yes, you are." Sherlock said.

"Sherlock, please. There isn't time for your deductions about a loose thread on my shirt which indicates the owner of the café downstairs is having an affair." John rolled his eyes.

"He is."

"Sherlock!"

"Well it's true." Sherlock stared steadily into John's eyes, "Stop trying to change the subject and answer my question: What happened?"

John retreated to his armchair and sat down, very aware or Sherlock's unwavering gaze on him.

After a few uncomfortable moments, John huffed a sigh and said, "Not today, Sherlock. It's late and I need to get to bed."

Sherlock lifted his stare and laid back down on the sofa. With his eyes closed, Sherlock said, "Tomorrow then."

It wasn't a question and John knew it.

"Alright, alright." John's voice wavered slightly and he knew Sherlock sensed it.

But what John _didn't_ know was that his flatmate had tensed up upon hearing it.

Sherlock's gravelly voice flowed softly from his lips to John's ears.

"Goodnight, John."

* * *

Wait, what was that?

Sherlock's highly sensitive ears pricked up at the tiny noise.

Then, it stopped, and for a moment the whole world had stopped moving and time had stopped ticking.

Sherlock held his breath and stood as motionless as possible, which for him was like a statue. You know, John always said that, that Sherlock was a machine, sometimes turned off, other times turned off while information was fed in-

_Wait._

There it was again.

What was that?

How to describe it…hmm…

It was like…um…a pattering from a small animal…wait, no. Not a small animal, a large creature, probably their hands (or paws or claws…or whatever they have) drumming against the floor. It seemed like the size of a human-

_John._

Oh, how could he have been so thick? The only other living thing in this flat was John Watson.

Stupid, stupid, stupid!

He was having another nightmare! And even though the flat was not empty, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson were completely alone at this hour.

The small lamp that Sherlock had turned on by the coffee table was dim, but just bright enough to illuminate Sherlock's long shadows, and the shadows of every other object in the room. The moon was hidden by the clouds that night, which gave an eerie sense of isolation.

His violin was balanced lightly in the crook of his arm and Sherlock stayed silent for another moment to listen to John's restlessness.

Sherlock looked around him as he was met with only silence. All around Sherlock saw memories of his past, the darkness encircling him with a ring of terror. The shadows seemed to taunt him, creating shapes in the window, as if he were fifteen again and the boys were tormenting with not only Sherlock's exterior, but Sherlock's only safe haven: his mind.

Suddenly, Sherlock was tumbling down a long, dark hole. The ground was getting closer and closer, but he never seemed to reach it.

_I feel like Alice, _Sherlock thought, his mind delusional, _I wonder who the bunny is that I'm chasing after?_

The edges of his vision slowly darkened as Sherlock reached out and felt gravity pulling him down into the endless rabbit hole.

_Sherlock?_

The voice was faint. Very faint. But Sherlock could still make out a fuzzy outline of a man standing over him.

_Sherlock? Are you alright?_

It sounded familiar, oh so familiar. Was that the rabbit?

_Sherlock! Don't you faint on me now!_

Oh. Oh! That was it!

_SHERLOCK!_

That voice…it belonged to J-

He was cut off and the world went black.

* * *

Sherlock awoke to the sunlight pouring through the window and onto his face.

He blinked rapidly, trying to block out the intense light.

"JOHN!"

His voice echoed throughout the flat.

Silence.

So then, John was out. Sherlock looked around him to see if he had missed anything. Apparently, a lot.

He was situated in a sleeping position on the sofa with a blanket placed carefully over him, and a soft pillow beneath his head.

Sherlock's violin was tucked beneath his left arm, and he realized he was clutching onto it as if his life depended on it.

Well now it was just horribly out of tune.

Wait, what happened? How did he get here?

Minutes passed with Sherlock just sitting there, letting his eyes glaze over as he thought about the other night.

Oh right, he blacked out.

Oh right…

"JOHN! I need my phone!" Sherlock yelled.

No reply.

Oh that's right! John was out…excusable mistake, really.

Reaching across to the coffee table, Sherlock picked up his mobile phone. Careful not to un-tuck any part of the carefully tucked in blanket around him, Sherlock made a phone call.

The other line picked up after four rings.

"Ah, dear brother, haven't heard from you in a while." The other man's silky slow voice came smoothly from the other end.

"Mycroft," Sherlock said without greeting the man, "They're happening again."

"Oh dear."


	4. Chapter 4

"Mycroft, this isn't the time to be talking to Mummy." Sherlock narrowed his eyes and glared at his older brother in frustration.

"Alright Mother, I'll take care of him, it's all going to be fine," Mycroft spoke into the square device pressed to his ear and tried to make his voice as soothing as possible, "Mother I'll make sure he doesn't get into any trouble. Alright, kisses! Mwah!"

Mycroft ended the call as Sherlock rubbed his temple.

"Why couldn't I just have talked to Mother?" He asked.

Mycroft crossed his legs in the leather armchair of 221B, the one where John normally sat, the one across from Sherlock's chair.

"Because, dear brother, she would start crying and have a heart attack." Mycroft said, giving Sherlock a look, as if to say 'it's not your fault you're not good with people'.

WELL DAMN RIGHT HE WASN'T GOOD WITH PEOPLE! BUT THAT WAS HIS OWN MOTHER FOR GOD'S SAKE!

It was the middle of the day and John was still out working.

Eugh.

Sherlock mentally made a grotesque sound in the back of his throat.

Work. Why did John have to do this to him? Why did John have to leave him with- Sherlock mentally shivered with disgust –_Mycroft._

The two brothers were giving each other a stare down, more like a _glare_ down but who's watching? Anyways, Sherlock had a sneer on his face, giving his brother the look one usually gave to a squished up bug. Mycroft was mimicking his facial expression, but not on purpose, it was just the mutual feelings they had about each other.

After an intense battle of glares, the older brother finally lifted his hard gaze and said, "Sherlock, we do not have time for these petty rivalries. The blackouts have come back and this is a serious matter."

Mycroft's face softened and he leaned forward, concern etched into his serious composition.

Ever so slowly, Sherlock copied his older brother and his true emotions showed. Sherlock's faced creased with tension and each line that was created was created with worry and fear.

Sensing his younger brother's anxiety, Mycroft immediately felt he needed to protect Sherlock. They were brothers, after all.

Mycroft got up out of the armchair and patted Sherlock on the shoulder.

"It'll be alright, Sherlock," He said, "Just remember what the doctor said."

Then, in an unbelievably soft voice, Sherlock said, "Mycroft?"

"Yes, Sherlock?"

The detective's voice was the one of a child's.

"What if I don't recover this time?"

* * *

Sherlock felt a strong and painful nudge from an elbow in his ribs.

"You've got to tell him." Mycroft hissed.

Sherlock screwed up his face with disgust.

"No." He said, pouting, "I don't want to."

"You must." Mycroft insisted.

"No."

"Yes!"

"NO!"

The small café went silent as every single person, customer and worker alike, looked up simultaneously at the pair of odd balls standing by the door.

John, who was at a small table far away from where Sherlock and Mycroft were standing, just seemed to notice his flatmate and his older brother.

"Oh, you're here." John said, looking up from his newspaper.

Mycroft cleared his throat with an air of daintiness and arrogance.

"Sherlock," He began, Mycroft's voice was raised slightly as if to give warning to his younger brother, "I need to head off now, but you should have a seat with John."

John raised an eyebrow in suspicion but smiled warmly as Sherlock sat down with a huff in the chair opposite him.

"Goodbye, boys," Mycroft said, "Have a nice chat."

Sherlock scowled at the receding back of his brother but then turned to John with the same look on his face.

"Something the matter, Sherlock?"

"No." He pouted.

"Well alright then." John said with a small teasing smile.

Then, "It's alright that you called me down from work in the middle of the day just to be late and make me sit in the café although this is my third day I've gone out of my way for you in a week."

John batted his eyelashes at Sherlock pleadingly.

"Don't do that sympathy thing on me, John," Sherlock looked away with an annoyed look set on his face, "It won't work you know."

John just shook his head, smirked slightly, and went back to his afternoon coffee and newspaper, "Alright, do what you want."

The pair sat there listening to the background noises for approximately seven and a half minutes before Sherlock couldn't bear it anymore.

"Fine," He grumbled, "I'll tell you."

John looked up from the article he was reading and smiled in satisfaction.

"I didn't give in, you know. This is purely for the peace of mind of Mycroft." Sherlock protested, not wanting to meet John's eyes.

"Okay then, shoot." John said, taking another sip of his coffee.

"Well, the thing is, um…last night…" Sherlock didn't even finish the first sentence before he trailed off.

John finally set down his paper and coffee mug while sighing deeply.

"You mean when you blacked out on me?"

"That was you?!" Sherlock now had his full attention on John, his bewildered face and loud voice startling some customers around them.

"Well yes, who else would it be?" John gave him a shrug.

_Oh._ Sherlock thought. _I'm a bloody idiot, aren't I?_

Apparently Sherlock's thoughts were shown on his face, because John immediately added, "You _are_ the most idiotic genius I have ever known, Sherlock."

"_Anyways,_ that wasn't the first time I've blacked out." Sherlock suddenly blurted it out with a sense of urgency.

"No?"

"No."

John sighed and leaned forward across the small table.

"When?"

"I was younger at the time," Sherlock said, his eyes unfocused and distracted as if remembering another time, "Much younger, in fact."

"Explain please."

"Well, I was 6 years old…"

_A tiny Sherlock sat on a log outside his family's mansion. Was it a Tuesday? No, a Friday…maybe. Anyways, the sun was almost about to set and Sherlock had to collect his samples before it got too dark. He was analyzing the amount of insects versus the growth moss, you see. It was something that he normally did, sit outside by himself, that is (oh, and the experiment part too)._

_"Sherlock!" _

_The young boy looked up to see another boy, although older, calling to him from the upstairs window._

_"Mummy wants us to come have dinner right now!" _

_Mycroft waited impatiently for his younger brother's reply._

_"Alright! Just one second! I've got to collect some data!" Sherlock didn't lift his head to scream back at Mycroft._

_"Hurry up! She won't let us eat until the whole family is there!"_

_Mycroft disappeared from the window, but didn't leave the room, to hear Sherlock's answer._

_But there was only silence. He'd expected his younger brother to reply immediately, as that what he always did._

_But the longer he waited, the more concerned Mycroft got. Yes, concerned. Actually caring about Sherlock._

_"Sherlock?"_

_A gasp escaped Mycroft's young lips. _

_"SHERLOCK!"_

"He found me lying on the ground with my head sideways in the puddle. At least that's what he told me." Sherlock paused to see John's reaction.

His gaze was met with worry in John's wrinkles, but his expression encouraged Sherlock to continue.

"Mother took me to the hospital after that, but the doctors couldn't figure out what was wrong with me. So they just told me the regular, to get enough sleep, to eat right, etc."

With every word Sherlock said, John's face became increasingly more screwed up in worry and concern.

"But the blackouts would continue to happen, at least three times a week." Sherlock finished. His face held a sign of relief, but there were still traces of reservation and anticipation to see what John had to say.

Bewilderment was not hidden on John's face, "And it's been going on for more than fifteen years?!"

Sherlock nodded his head.

John simply studied him, looking for traces of lying or dishonesty. Of course, it was no use, Sherlock had an excellent poker face. Finally, he concluded that this was the truth.

"Why have I not known this before, Sherlock?" John finally said after moments of silence.

"Because shortly before you arrived, they stopped." Sherlock pronounced every word slowly and carefully.

"And now they're starting up again?" John's concern was a bit unnerving but also a tiny bit endearing for Sherlock.

In his plain matter-of-fact voice, the detective said, "I believe the next one will be tomorrow."

"Oh Sherlock," The doctor sighed, "Why are you just telling me this now?"

"Well I sure as hell didn't want to tell you when we first met, as that might affect your decision on living with me or not." Sherlock Holmes was not normally this defensive, but with John, nothing was what it seemed.

John chuckled softly to lighten the mood and said, "Now that you've got all of this out of the way, we can look for a cure."

A rare, genuine smile appeared on Sherlock's face as a ray of afternoon sunshine landed on his partner's face.

"Thank you, John."


	5. Chapter 5

_It's because I bloody care about you, Sherlock!_ Thought John angrily.

The rain was pouring down in buckets in the middle of the night as John wandered around, trying to look for a 24 hour Tesco. He was soaked to the bone, and the fact that the tea he drank before he left the flat was cold didn't help his chattering teeth.

However, the tea wasn't the only thing on his mind when John left the flat. Did it matter what he wanted to do for Sherlock? He was lying on the floor unconscious for god's sake!

This blackout had only lasted half an hour, but the whole entire time Sherlock was out, John was too busy worrying to even try and focus on something else. But of course when he had awoken, Sherlock had insisted he was fine and didn't need anything, only to discover they were out of milk and there was no way to get it at this hour.

Milk.

Stupid, fucking milk.

Well, at least John was almost used to this by now. Sherlock had five blackouts in the last week, two of them on the same day. He also had various bruises from where he fell to the ground during his many blackouts. There were so many of these that John had begun to nickname it the "Sherlock Sickness".

And because it was Sherlock, he had taken advantage of John's concern and told him that he would only be able to sleep if he had warm milk in his belly.

John had looked in the refrigerator only to find it empty (save for a few bags of severed fingers).

However, Sherlock moaned and groaned about not being able to sleep and had even pouted on the couch for a full fifteen minutes.

Then, not being able to take John ignoring him, Sherlock went back to whining.

"John."

The doctor didn't reply and tried to focus on the novel he was reading.

"John."

He gritted his teeth in frustration but kept on reading.

"John."

The doctor tried reading the paragraph word by word in his head.

"John."

_They followed Professor McGonagall past the silent figures of Neville, Dean, and Seamus, out of the dormitory, down the spiral stairs into the common room…_

"John."

"WHAT THE BLOODY FUCKING HELL DO YOU WANT SHERLOCK?!"

John finally exploded, much to the satisfaction that was apparent on Sherlock's smug face.

"Can you ask Mrs. Hudson if she's got any milk?" The mock politeness was too much for John.

With a huff, he obliged and stormed out the door, emphasizing every footstep down each step with loud stomps.

But when he got there, Mrs. Hudson only had skim milk, which Sherlock not-so-politely turned down, and lead to the detective to violently storm out of the room leaving John to return the unused milk.

"Why is he so _infuriating_?" John muttered to himself, walking back up the stairs to 221B.

"Sherlock?" John called as he opened the door, "There's no other way we can get milk. You'll have to sleep without it tonight."

There was no reply, and the detective was nowhere to be found. He stood in the sitting room, looking around the flat, wondering where Sherlock was.

"Sherlock?"

Still no answer.

John, a little bit worried, walked over to Sherlock's bedroom door and knocked lightly on the door.

"Sherlock?" He called again, softly.

Again, nothing was heard.

John pushed opened the door, illuminating Sherlock's long, lanky body flung violently across the bed. The room was in total darkness, except for the hallway light that was cast upon Sherlock's striped pyjamas.

A small gasp escaped John's lips as he rushed over to Sherlock. His face was planted into the pillows, and carefully, John flipped him over.

The army doctor urgently ran through the steps in his head:

_One. Check for a pulse._

After a moment of frantic searching, John found a faint fluttering of a beat.

_Two. Look for difficulties in breathing._

John put his face a millimeter from Sherlock's mouth. There! He-

KLONK.

Both men shouted with pain and clutched their foreheads as a bruise started to form on each of their faces.

"John!" Sherlock was now sitting upright, wincing in pain while John had fallen back on the floor and the same facial expression was set on his face.

"Ow, Sherlock!" He said, rubbing his forehead.

"Not my fault you were standing right over me when I decided to come to." Sherlock grumbled.

"Well, alright then," John said, equally annoyed, "I just came to say that you are going to have to sleep milk-less tonight."

"No."

"What do you mean 'no'?!" John looked up, his face had changed from annoyed to bewilderment in a second.

"I mean that I absolutely cannot sleep without my milk." Sherlock said in his monotone voice.

"Well you're going to have to." John grumbled, getting up from his uncomfortable position on the floor.

"Absolutely not, John."

"It's not like I can just go out right now, it's almost the middle of the night!" John said, almost shouting.

"Fine!" The detective said, rubbing his bruise, "I'll just go out and buy some milk myself!" This time, it was shouting.

Sherlock stood up and stormed out of his bedroom, emphasizing each step through the hallway.

"Sherlock!" John yelled, "You can't go out there! It's raining and you're in your pyjamas!"

Sherlock turned right back around to the doorway of the room and looked John straight in the eye.

"I. Don't. Fucking. Care."

"Don't be stupid, Sherlock, just get back here and _go to sleep_." John said forcefully, his eyes giving a cool glare back to the detective.

"Well, if I can't go out, and you won't go out for me, what am I supposed to do?!" Sherlock screamed, his voice echoing off the walls.

A moment of silence passed between them, with just the sound of Sherlock's ragged breathing and John's cold gaze at him.

Then, in a soft voice, Sherlock said, "Why do you even do this anyways, John?"

Another silent second.

"DAMN!" John slammed his hand down on the floor of Sherlock's bedroom and stormed right past Sherlock and out of the flat, without even pausing to get his jacket.

Which lead him right outside in the pouring rain.

_Do you want to know why, Sherlock? _John screamed in his head. _Do you really want to know why?!_

_It's because I bloody care about you, Sherlock!_

And so there he was, the honorable army doctor, racing through the streets of London in the middle of the night to find a market with milk for his flatmate.

* * *

For the second time in the last hour, John walked through the doors of 221B.

"Sherlock?"

Silence.

John looked around the sitting room, no one. The kitchen, too, was empty.

"Sherlock?" He called again, a little louder.

More silence.

This was getting oddly déjà vu like, hadn't he already experienced this half an hour ago? John didn't even try calling a third time, he just went straight to the bedroom.

And no surprise, there he was.

Sherlock Holmes, face down (again) on the bed in the same position John had found him earlier.

"Get up." John's tone was flat, his voice lacking emotion.

"Sherlock." John went over to the bed and nudged him on the shoulder, "Get up."

"Sherlock."

More nudging.

"Sherlock, I said get up, this isn't funny." This time, John took him by the shoulders and flipped his flatmate around.

John's eyes widened with fear and the gallon of milk dropped to his feet as he saw what was in front of him. Sherlock had splattered blood on the front of his striped pyjamas and on the corners of his lips. His mouth was slightly agape and John could see saliva mixed with blood pooling on his tongue. But what terrified John the most was the way Sherlock's eyelids were slightly open, but he could only see the whites of his eyes, as his eyes were rolled to the back of his head.

"Sherlock?"

John was numb with fear. He just stood there, watching a deteriorating version of his once spirited flatmate.

His mind screamed, but his body couldn't react.

_SHERLOCK!_


	6. Chapter 6

John did something he'd never done before.

He took Sherlock's hands in his.

And John laced his fingers through Sherlock's and held them there, the detective's hands clasped tightly in John's own. There was a sense of urgency, as if Sherlock would disappear if John didn't hold on tightly enough.

So there he was, in the middle of the night, sitting next to Sherlock's hospital bed, praying to _God_ for his safety. He had coughed up blood for christ's sake!

Right after John found the unconscious detective lying on his bed covered in the red stuff, he rushed him to the hospital. Here, they had told him Sherlock had always had internal problems, but they wouldn't tell him exactly what it was. "Confidential to the Holmes family, sorry." The nurse had said.

The dim lights of Sherlock's room illuminated the bleak, beige walls and everything seemed to be sterilized with irritating bleakness.

John and Sherlock were the only splashes of color in that white, boring, hospital room. Sherlock wouldn't have like it at all, he'd probably bleed on the walls to make it more interesting.

Sherlock was lying on the bed in his pyjamas covered in blood, in the same position as when John found him.

"Sherlock," John whispered, looking up at his unconscious face, "Why do you do this to me?"

The doctor could almost hear him speak. _You don't have to care, John. _

"But I do care, Sherlock, and I will probably never stop caring," He paused, "No matter how much pain and trouble you cause me. Sherlock Holmes, you are my best friend and I need you. You should've told me about all these things, but you never do, and you probably never will. You know I can't help you if you don't." Another pause, then, "I can't say this to your face, so I'll say it right now: I see why you get so happy because of crimes. Why? Because _you can't cover up blood._ Makes for more evidence. Now I know all about your 'internal problems', can't get away from this one this time."

A small smile appeared on John's tired and worn face.

"You bloody idiot."

"What did you just call me, John?"

"Sherlock!?" John jumped up at the deep rumbling voice of his friend.

The detective sat up on the bed and sighed.

"Yes, John?"

John sucked in his breath, and after a moment of hesitation, flung one arm tightly around Sherlock's neck.

"Oh thank god, Sherlock!"

John held tightly onto his friend, keeping him locked in a strong embrace (not like Sherlock was complaining or anything).

"I thought you were going to die!" John said over Sherlock's shoulder, "Sherlock Holmes, why the hell do you always get yourself into some type of trouble?"

"It's not like I asked for this." He pouted.

And then, in that moment, Sherlock realized his right hand was holding onto something. No, some_one._ Someone's whose hand was strong and sturdy, warm and soft, someone who was clutching onto him for dear life.

John.

But it wasn't just John who was clinging onto Sherlock, the detective realized he was holding tightly onto John too. That their fingers were intertwined.

Slowly, while John was breathing breaths of relief into Sherlock's back, he used his free hand to lock it around John's back and pull him into his chest.

"Sherlock…" John started to say.

"You're getting blood on yourself, John," Sherlock cut him off with a whisper, but his arm was still around John.

"I don't fucking care, Sherlock," John wasn't about to let go of Sherlock either, "What matters now is that you're alright."

Finally, after both men were reassured the other wasn't going anywhere, they pulled apart.

Just the hug, mind you. Their hands were still interlocked with each other, but it would be a while before either one noticed.

John gave Sherlock a small smile.

And in return, Sherlock gave him one of his rare smiles.

"I'm just glad to know you're okay, Sherlock," John said, "You really scared me back there."

Sherlock gave a low chuckle.

"Me? Scare a soldier? Don't flatter me, John."

The doctor just smiled and squeezed his partner's hand, causing both of them to look at the connection simultaneously.

Which then, in turn, caused both of them (simultaneously again) to blush furiously.

But the thing was, they didn't let go.

"Um," Sherlock cleared his throat, "Uh, John?"

John swallowed nervously, both of them still beet red in the face, and said, "Yes, Sherlock?"

"How did I get here?"

* * *

"DO YOU MIND?!" A voice screamed from the kitchen in Sherlock's low, gravelly voice.

"Ah, good to see you too, brother."

"Mycroft." Sherlock hissed, refusing to look up from his microscope.

The older brother sighed heavily.

"Sherlock, I had to find out what happened last night through gossip in my office."

"It's not like anything's changed." He retorted.

Mycroft sighed again.

"Sherlock, please. I worry about you, you know?"

"No, you don't." Sherlock still had his face planted onto the microscope, but his eyes were unmoving.

Having finally given up, Mycroft simply walked over to where Sherlock was at the kitchen table and patted his shoulder. Sherlock tensed up at his touch, making contact was a foreign concept to both of them.

Mycroft left the flat.

It was the middle of the day and there was no one at all in the building (except for Sherlock). So, Mycroft sat on the steps leading down from 221B sighed.

He had a pained expression on his face as he rubbed his temple.

Then, slowly, a single tear fell from Mycroft's eyes and onto his perfectly black polished shoes.

"You're my brother, Sherlock," Mycroft whispered softly so that even his own ears could barely hear, "I actually do care about you."

He sat like that, just sitting there _caring _for Sherlock.

Finally, he pursed his lips and hastily got up, regaining his posture to be able to go back to the office, completely unaware of the shadow that was standing behind him the whole time.

* * *

"Sherlock?"

"Yes, John?"

The doctor breathed a sigh of relief. They had designed a system where John would call for Sherlock, and if he didn't answer right away, John would phone the hospital immediately.

It wasn't a very intricate plan, but it would do for now.

"I got some more milk." John said, walking into the kitchen.

"Don't want it," Sherlock said, "Don't need it."

Sherlock was standing up at the kitchen table, looking through a microscope at some bacteria samples, not paying any attention to John at all. But at that moment, John Watson got _very_ annoyed with Sherlock Holmes.

"I HAD TO GO OUT IN THE POURING RAIN TWO DAYS AGO BECAUSE YOU SAID YOU WANTED MILK, JUST TO COME BACK AND FIND YOU UNCONSCIOUS WITH BLOOD ALL OVER YOU!" John had lost it, "NOW YOU'RE SAYING YOU DON'T WANT IT?!"

"Yes."

And that was one of Sherlock Holmes rare mistakes.

"Why you!" John growled, "Fine. From now on you can get your own milk."

"Alright."

Second mistake.

John huffed out of there, his chin held stubbornly up and his stride firm. His footsteps could be heard (and felt) by Sherlock and probably everyone else in the building as John stormed up to his bedroom. A loud slam of the door told the detective John would be cooped up there a while to make his point.

After a moment of complete silence, Sherlock's mind couldn't take the uncomfortableness lingering in the air.

"John?"

No reply as expected.

_Dammit, John. Why do you have to be so sensitive? It was just rain._ Sherlock thought to himself angrily. _And besides, I couldn't have looked that bad!_

The rest of the evening went by in a stillness that was highly irritable to Sherlock and didn't allow him to think at all, but satisfied a stubborn John.

When John finally went downstairs the next morning, he was very hungry considering he had skipped supper the other night to make a point.

"Sherlock?"

Silence.

"Oh are you giving me the silent treatment now? As payback?"

Still no reply.

"I see, well it's alright. I'll just be over here making some delicious omelets." John smirked, even though Sherlock could go days without food, he could never resist John's omelets.

But there was still silence.

"Sherlock?"

After a moment of realization, John rushed to Sherlock's bedroom and flung the door open without knocking.

He was met with a half-naked Sherlock, his pyjama pants still on, but his chest bare and his hand stuck in midair, reaching for the shirt that was on his bed.

They stood there in complete awkwardness as John's cheeks began to redden.

Then, Sherlock crossed his arms, raised an eyebrow, and turned to face John.

"Shouldn't you at least knock first?"

John quickly stole a look at Sherlock and noticed everything about his flatmate, the paleness of his skin, and the multiple ribs showing on his side. But more importantly, the pronounced muscles of Sherlock's biceps even though he was so thin.

"U-um…" John couldn't find his voice.

Sherlock smirked.

"What, John?" He cocked his head to the side, "Lost your tongue?"

John opened his mouth, trying to say something, but gave up and threw his hands in the air then walked out of the room.

After John had left, Sherlock's mouth softened into a small, genuine smile, but then broadened into a grin.

_Who's the idiot now, John? _Sherlock thought to himself, chuckling and pulling on his shirt.

Walking out of the bedroom, Sherlock could feel John's eyes on him as he reached for his violin.

He played a couple notes, tuning his instrument while John watched.

"You shouldn't scare then embarrass me like that," John finally said, shaking his head, "You are a terrible person, Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock's head snapped up, his eyebrows knit together in concern.

Then, taking approximately four strides to where John was standing at the kitchen sink, Sherlock looking him in the eyes.

"I am very sorry, John," He said, each word pronounced with stern sincerity, "Please, forgive me."

A moment passed as a confused John stared back at the detective. Then with sudden realization, laughter bubbled up from John's mouth and filled the whole flat with its beautiful sound.

"I wasn't serious, Sherlock!" He said, laughing, "You're not _actually_ a terrible person!"

The look of worry melted off of Sherlock's face and was replaced with a pout.

He opened his mouth for a smart retort, but Sherlock never got to the first word.

"Sherlock!"

The detective had slumped forward, relying on John to catch him while his unconscious body fell limply towards the ground.

"Oh Christ." John muttered as he half dragged half carried Sherlock to his bedroom.

He carefully laid his friend on the bed and covered him up to his chin with the comfortable sheets.

John retreated back from the bed, moving slowly around it as to not wake Sherlock. But it wasn't like he was asleep or anything, Sherlock wasn't going to wake up because of him.

John was wrong.

A hand shot out from under the covers and grabbed John's wrist, clinging on to it with a tenacious grip.

"Sherlock?!" John whirled around at the touch.

"Don't leave me." A muffled voice said.

A moment of silence. Then:

"Sherlock, why did you fake blacking out?" John didn't even try to hide the exasperation in his voice.

But there was no answer.

"Sherlock?" John moved back to the side of the bed, "I'm not going to sta-" But he was cut off by soft moans and groans.

Rolling his eyes, John whipped the covers off of Sherlock, but he did not see what he expected to see.

Sherlock was rolled up in a ball, his hand still on John's wrist. His eyes were shut tightly and his eyebrows furrowed together in what looked like frustration.

"Sherlock," John said softly, nudging his shoulder, "Stop faking it and come have some breakfast."

"Sherlock," He touched Sherlock again.

But Sherlock wasn't answering. He wasn't even responding.

Wait…

Was Sherlock really….?

No, of course not!

But…

Oh god.

Oh my fucking god.

Sherlock's blackouts were like sleep?!

That's how he didn't die all those times he had gone without sleep for weeks!

Oh…

And that's how John Watson found himself sitting on the edge of Sherlock's bed, his wrist still grasped tightly between Sherlock's fingers, and his other hand rubbing soothing patterns on Sherlock's cheek.

_After all this time, _John thought, _after all this time I only know bits and pieces of you. But now there's something new and you still refuse to tell me the whole story. _

_You idiot._


	7. Chapter 7

John Watson walked quietly into the sitting room of 221B from the front door.

"Sherlock we need to talk about your blackouts," He said immediately, though not daring to look up at Sherlock's face.

He waited for Sherlock's reply, but was only met with silence.

"Sherlock, I said we need to talk."

John slowly lifted his gaze from the floorboards, inch by inch.

There was Sherlock's foot, then his leg, and then his hips-wait.

Why was there rope around his waist? And shouldn't his hands be at his side? _Where were Sherlock's hands?_

Hold on…

John snapped his head up, gasping as the image in front of him formed.

Suddenly, he felt the cool feel of metal pressed to the back of his neck and a soft clicking sound. He knew that sound all too well.

"Come with us and neither of you will come to harm."

Holding his breath, John let himself get pushed to the door, his heart pounding with fear. He hadn't gotten a glance at their capturer's face, but from the sound of his voice, he seemed…Scottish? John would have to catch up with Sherlock on that. Speaking of which, why wasn't Sherlock being lead out?

John started to turn his neck, but a low chuckle came from behind him, "No, no, you mustn't do that."

He gritted his teeth and continued walking, out the door, down the steps, and to the door that led them out onto the street.

Yes! This was it! He couldn't get shot out in public where everyone could see him! Okay so now all he had to do was step outside, swing around to knock the gun out of the man's hands, get Sher-

"You will walk out there and get into the car." Said the same low menacing voice.

John smirked, "Why? You can't shoot me out in public."

Another chuckle, "I can't, but I _will._"

John's face paled with realization.

"You are not who we came here for, Doctor, we are simply using you as a, what would you say, _bargaining chip._"

The doctor felt a slight push so that he was almost pressed up against the door.

"You will get in the car, Dr. Watson."

_Damn! _He thought, as he felt the metal lift from his neck.

"Open the door, Doctor."

John complied.

And he stepped out into London with the unknown man behind him. It was a beautiful day, the sun was shining, (a rare thing for this time of year) and there wasn't a cloud in the sky. Every Londoner's perfect day, and the perfect day for a kidnapping.

_Kidnapping? I'm an adult!_ John thought, laughing to himself as he walked to the black limousine that was parked right at the curb. But he stopped right outside the car door.

_Now I'm making jokes while someone is threatening to kill me! _John laughed to himself again. _Wait! Now is the perfect time to look at his fac- _

He felt strong hands on his shoulders, "You can't see my face, it's against the rules."

"Moriarty." John hissed the name between clenched teeth.

His capturer laughed again, and it sounded as if he were out with his mates in a pub, laughing and drinking and having a good time, not trying to be intimidating at someone he just kidnapped.

"Oh no, dear doctor, not Moriarty this time." John could just imagine the look of amusement on his face, "Get in the car, Doctor Watson."

To a passerby, this looked like two friends going out for lunch rather than the ugly truth that was behind all it. People always did seem to only see what they liked, maybe that's why Sherlock was so remarkable, he didn't see just what he wanted, he saw _everything._

_Oh, Sherlock, _John thought, clamoring into the backseat of the car, _I hope they're not hurting you too bad in there._

* * *

"Oi! You! Get up!"

Sherlock awoke to a gruesome headache, it made him feel as if his brain were splitting apart. _The brain can't split, _He thought, _it's highly improbable. _

"I said, get up!"

The detective mentally groaned as he felt a swift kick to his side, sharp and strong. There would probably be a bruise there in the morning…

Speaking of which, what time of day was it anyways? Sherlock never knew, but seeing as he was tied up and could barely see the things around him, little details like that were kind of important.

He blinked his eyes open and took in the fuzzy outline of his familiar flat. The familiar desk, the familiar books, John's familiar laptop, wait-

Unfamiliar person.

Sherlock ached all over as he tried to get a good look at the man in front of him.

"Whu af-eapoi-" His tongue felt like a knotted piece of sandpaper.

The mysterious man in front of him laughed, a good solid, hearty laugh. One that would make you think that someone had just made a joke.

"No use talking, Mr. Holmes." Sherlock could make out a gleeful grin, "You won't need to anyways. Just listen."

"Leewo- afdu."

Another laugh.

"Really, Mr. Holmes, I expected better from you."

The fuzzy haze still outlined everything in Sherlock's view, but it was getting a little bit clearer. _If only I could see them, _thought Sherlock, _then I could figure out a way to get out of here. When's John getting back from work anyways?_

The man who was speaking moved aside to reveal another silhouette of yet another man.

"Hello, Sherlock Holmes."

That voice was deep and soothing, almost like a doctor's, but hinted with a trace of fury and untamed madness.

Who were these people?

"We are part of an organization called SET." He said, seeming to read Sherlock's mind, "And we have been informed of a certain _detective_ that could assist us in our experiments."

"Ah-" Sherlock started to try and speak again. This was nothing! Barely any information at all!

A chuckle.

"Didn't you tell him, Leonard?" _The first man's name, _Sherlock thought, "You won't be able to properly speak until that pill wears off, which could be oh, about six or seven hours." The detective could make out a finger waggling in his face and an expression a father would make to his child.

"Now," He continued, "you must be wondering why we didn't just ask you to help us. Well, Mr. Holmes, the answer to that is we need your mind," The man paused, "_Physically."_

Sherlock took a sharp intake of breath and made out what looked like a grin on the man's face.

"Don't worry, Mr. Holmes, we're not going to _remove_ your brain, we just need you to cooperate and let us use it." Leonard spoke up from behind the current man.

"Oh, Leonard! You never let me have any fun!" Sherlock could almost hear the man pouting.

Leonard gave a slight laugh, "Let's just get him to the lab before the scientists get grumpy."

"Alright, but only for you!" The man had turned his head and was laughing with Leonard while Sherlock tried to focus his eyes on them and see clearly. His vision still hadn't let up and he sensed that it wouldn't until this "pill" they had given him wore off, which would be the same time he got his speech back.

But for now, there were more important things to worry about. What was SET? What did they plan to do with his mind? Where were they taking him? How did they get into the flat? How…why…what…the questions swarmed in his head like bees, the constant buzzing clouding his thinking abilities.

However, there was one question that stood out, that rose above the rest: Where was-

KLONK

The dull sound of metal against the back of his head and the taste of metal in his mouth was one of the last things Sherlock felt as his vision slowly turned black.

The voice was soft and calming, tranquil and soothing.

"Nighty night, Mr. Holmes."


	8. Chapter 8

Sherlock groaned and sat up with difficulty. That was the second time in a row that he had woken up with a terrible headache.

"John," Wait…he could use his voice again! Sherlock sighed with relief, but then the memories of his capture flooded back into his brain.

_He was in the kitchen, looking through a microscope and taking notes on the growth of the fungi that was on the small slide. Then, there was a click of the door lock opening, was John home? At this hour? Sherlock looked up with slight confusion, and then even more when he realized he hadn't heard anyone come up the stairs. _

_"John?" He said cautiously, getting up from the stool he was sitting on._

_There was no answer. _

_Sherlock walked over to the door and opened it slowly, only to have the top of his head met with something large and heavy. He remembered falling to the ground with the outline of a man above him._

He gritted his teeth in remembrance.

What a stupid way to go down. To just go down like that, no fight, no resistance, no nothing. It was just so bloody _stupid._

Sherlock rubbed his temple and remembered some more.

_We are part of an organization called SET, and we have been informed of a certain detective that could assist us in our experiments._

SET? What did that stand for? Sedentary Evolutionary Transmutations? Oh good lord, his brain was just so messed up he couldn't even figure out a three letter acronym that even made the least bit of sense.

Jesus Christ.

What else did that guy say?

_You must be wondering why we didn't just ask you to help us. Well, Mr. Holmes, the answer to that is we need your mind _physically.

Physically? What the bloody hell did that even mean?

Finally, Sherlock looked around and discovered he could see again too. So he took in his surroundings. He was sitting on the floor of a room that was all white, with white tiles and white padded walls and a white door.

It looked like the place they sent the mentally insane. You know, the ones they had to put a straightjacket in. Fluorescent lights hung from the ceiling and created a bleak atmosphere, as if he were in a hospital.

The only entrance/exit seemed to be that door and the walls were sealed together which indicated that the room was soundproof.

_Ah, _Sherlock thought, _they're going to do experiments on me._

After another moment of looking around, Sherlock sighed.

_Dull, boring, predictable. _

But then again, there was the matter of the pill and what was in it. He'd woken up with only a headache, but that was from where they hit him on the head, not because of the medication. There actually seemed to be no side effects, no after-taste lingering in his mouth, and no indication of medicine whatsoever. What kind of technology was this?

He was still wearing his own clothes, the purple button up shirt and black slacks that he was wearing before he got captured.

Where-?

A click and a crackling sound echoed through the room, then a voice.

"I see you're awake, Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and looked around. There! In the top right corner, an intercom.

"We'll explain everything after you agree."

The voice paused again, and although his mouth felt dryer than the Sahara, Sherlock spoke.

"Agree to what?"

The crackling voice came back, "We'll tell you everything _after_ you agree."

"I terribly sorry, but I cannot agree if I do not know what I'm agreeing to." Sherlock said stubbornly to the air.

"We cannot tell you more."

"Then I cannot comply."

"Are you sure, Mr. Holmes?"

"Yes."

A sigh came from the intercom.

"We really didn't want to have to do this, Mr. Holmes, but you leave us no choice if you don't accept."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow to the voice.

Suddenly, the wall to his left slid to the side, revealing a glass wall instead, letting Sherlock see a different room.

The room was identical to his, except there were two people. Two men. One sitting down in a chair in the center of the room, blindfolded, with his hands tied behind his back, and his shirt torn on the right bicep…wait. That shirt, it was familiar. Very familiar. Then there was the man's face…

_John._

Well fuck.

The other man was standing to the right of John, holding a gun pointed straight at John's temple.

The voice came back but Sherlock could barely hear it, "If you do not agree, Dr. Watson will have to go."

Sherlock sucked in his breath and his eyes widened.

"You have ten seconds, Mr. Holmes."

_John._

"Ten."

_He wasn't moving, so hurt then._

"Nine."

_There was a bloody gash on his cheek as well as his arm._

_"_Eight."

_Even though he was blindfolded, Sherlock could see his pleading eyes._

"Seven."

_Please, God, let me live, he seemed to be pleading._

_"_Six."

_Sherlock's eyes darted over every detail of John, his quivering lip, his furrowed eyebrows…_

"Five."

_John._

"Four."

_His John._

"Three."

_John was supposed to be at work._

"Two."

_WHY THE HELL WAS JOHN HERE?_

"One."

"I AGREE!" Sherlock roared, his voice coarse and uneven, but he didn't care. He couldn't take it anymore.

"Thank you, Mr. Holmes."

The moment the last syllable reached his ears, the wall slid back and covered up John and the man who was about ready to kill him.

_John. _He thought. _Come back, John. Let me see that you're safe._

Sherlock's eyes were glazed over with shock and confusion, and his mind was whirring with the intensity of a thousand gears working at once.

But his thoughts were interrupted by the voice.

"We'll come to collect and explain things to you in a little bit."

There was a pause as both parties awaited the other's reaction.

Then, "Don't worry, Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson will be well taken care of."

A click and Sherlock new the intercom had been turned off.

And once it had, he laid down on his back and covered his eyes with his hands. In one fluid motion, he wiped away a drop of water on his face.

_John._

Sherlock Holmes, the infamous, heartless, cold, soulless, Sherlock Holmes. The one that had been able to solve over a thousand mysteries that no one else could, the one that could tell you your life story just by looking at you.

But he was also the one that never ate on days end and the one didn't sleep until he was hallucinating. And the one that needed someone. Just someone to take make sure he was healthy and someone to just _care_ about him.

But that someone was gone, taken from him.

_John._

Then, Sherlock shot up from his lying down position to a standing up pose. There was a fierce glint in his eyes, a look of determination set on his face.

_John._

His jaw was set with fury and his fists clenched tightly until his knuckles were white.

_I'm coming._


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: Sorry it's a short chapter this time...but hope you guys enjoy!**

* * *

The white door opened and Sherlock looked up. It had been precisely eight hours and forty six minutes since he had agreed to…whatever he was here for, and he hadn't spent a single second of that time resting. Thinking though, just thinking.

"I've come to collect you, Mr. Holmes."

A doctor in a white lab coat with thinning hair on his almost bald head stood at the doorway, holding a clipboard. He looked around mid-forties and the glasses set on his large nose didn't do anything to help him look younger.

Sherlock stood up wordlessly and walked over to the man, towering over him by at least six inches.

"You should've gotten some sleep." The scientist chastised Sherlock as if he were a child.

Sherlock didn't look him in the eye, he just stood there awaiting instructions.

Sighing with disappointment that he didn't get a reply, the scientist walked out of the room and motioned for Sherlock to follow.

The pair walked down a long hall, predictably white, and reached a door at the end of the hall to the right. Sherlock appeared to be dazed and inattentive.

"In here, please." The scientist opened the door and let Sherlock in first.

Inside the room, it was like the future had taken a trip to the past and made its home in that room. Everything was white of course, but in the center there was a raised table, the width for a human body, and tubes and wires and futuristic technology lying around on counters against the walls of the new room. It was similar to the morgue back in London (Sherlock assumed they were out of the city if not the country) with the exception of the robots constantly moving, picking things up, putting things down. That place could've given Sherlock's Mind Palace a run for its money.

Two more scientists, one male and one female were in the room, adjusting wires and tubes around the metal bed. He expected more than just three scientists…well, that was an intriguing detail.

They both looked up as Sherlock entered and smiled as if greeting an old friend.

"Come along, dear," The woman said, she looked around the same age as the man who had picked him up. She motioned to the table and gave another smile, "Just lie down here, please."

Sherlock did as he was told and laid down on his back on the table, all the while keeping note of everything in the room, from the small scratches on the cabinet in the very top left corner to the fact that the robots had no off switches.

He also heard every noise that everything in the room made. The scientists for example, tried to keep their voices as soothing as possible, but Sherlock wouldn't be affected even if they screamed at him.

However, that was only the man who got him and the woman who spoke first, the other scientist was a mystery.

Three seconds.

That's how long it took him to figure out that the woman had a husband and two children back at home, the scientist who had collected him was living with his brother, both with no spouse and no children.

The third scientist however, oh the third scientist was tricky. He looked younger than the other two, mid-thirties, maybe? But for some reason, Sherlock couldn't deduce much about him.

Interesting.

The woman's voice broke through his thoughts, "We're just going to give you something to swallow, alright?"

Sherlock didn't reply or show any sign that he had heard her. But he did watch her out of the corner of his eye as she brought him one single pill on a tray with a cup of water.

He examined the pill. It was white like everything else in the room and probably everything in the whole building, but it was also smooth and shiny, reflecting the light that came from the ceiling.

"Whenever you're ready, dear." The woman held out the tray to Sherlock.

He tried to sit up, but the woman chuckled, "You won't want to be doing that when you take it, just lie down darling."

Sherlock laid back down and took the pill and the cup.

_What was this…?_

The detective stared at the pill for half a second before putting it in his mouth.

_This is for you, John._

Taking a deep breath, Sherlock drank a gulp of water and swallowed the small white pill.

Almost immediately, the edges of his vision slowly darkened as he glanced around in fright. Was he having another blackout? It felt just like it…

Yeah, just like a blackout…


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: So I think this chapter might be a bit confusing, so just tell me if there's anything that needs clearing up and I'll tell you if it's coming in the next chapter or explain it. Thanks for reading and all the lovely reviews :)**

* * *

Sherlock felt heat all around him.

_Damn! The third bloody time! _Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut as the wave of nausea crashed over him with yet another headache.

Wait.

Where was he? His vision had cleared, thankfully, but his surroundings were pitch black and it appeared to be that he had been enveloped in black smoke. Then, the heat that the detective had first felt rose to a crescendo of intense, flaming hot fire.

Sherlock cried out in pain.

There actually was fire all around him, but it wasn't just around him, Sherlock was _in_ the fire. _He was being burned._

The smell of burning flesh did nothing to help his nauseous stomach and he turned to deposit the contents of his meal twenty hours ago, straight into the fire.

Then, thinking he would be able to take whatever was left of him, Sherlock looked down. His body…was _on_ fire. Yet, his clothes were still…_there_, they were just blackened and burned off in some places.

There was excruciating pain beneath the numbness he felt, and the sight of his flesh and bone didn't do anything to help his condition. Slowly, the detective lifted his arm to take a closer look and rolled up his sleeve. And discovered that the fire was eating away at it, scorching through his flesh until white bone showed.

He carefully pressed two fingers to the underside of his wrist and the pain went away as if was replaced with fascination. After a moment of complete stillness, the detective found it: the strong beating of a heartbeat.

_Bum._

How was he still alive?

_Bum._

Was he dead?

_Bum._

Where was SET?

_Bum._

What had the scientists done to him?

_Bum._

He kept his fingers there, taking the tiniest bit of comfort in the strong rhythm. Sherlock watched as the flames traveled up from his forearm to his fingers that were on his veins as they burned his fore middle finger. They were a fine pair, he supposed, flesh and flames. The fire could only continue if there was something to burn, and the flesh let it do that willingly, letting the fire twirl around and create blackened charcoal and a pungent smell.

It should've hurt. A lot.

But Sherlock didn't notice the pain, for he had heard firm but soft footsteps above the roar of the fire. He slowly sat up with agony and looked out into the darkness through the smoke.

There was so much going on around him but the only thing Sherlock could focus on was the silhouette of a man in front of him, looking similar to his kidnappers that took him to the lab.

His kidnappers…that seemed like a world away now.

The mysterious man stepped closer until he was directly in front of the fire, the smoke billowing in long trails behind him. Although he was so close, Sherlock could barely make out the suit he was wearing and the slight stubble on his chin…

_Moriarty._

Sherlock narrowed his eyes as the madman grinned. And Moriarty laughed, his cackle a sharp knife above the intense heat and smoke of the flames.

"Welcome to Hell, Sherlock. And guess what?" He chuckled again, "I'm the only God down here."

But much to Moriarty's confusion, Sherlock simply smiled through the pain and shot his cold gaze at the monster in front of him. The look on his face pierced the very heart of the fire, freezing it over with frost of his voice.

"Bring it on."

Once those three words left his lips, Moriarty grinned with delight.

"Be prepared, Sherlock Holmes. This is not the Hell you'd expect it to be." He let Sherlock take his words in, then, "Let the SET explain it to you, first. Then I'll give you my rules."

Moriarty waved an arm impatiently to the black sky. "He's ready!" He called.

The crackle of an intercom.

"This is the effect of the pill you just took, Mr. Holmes," The voice said, "We are conducting an experiment with your brain. Mr. Moriarty will explain things in more detail after make some things more apparent to you."

The voice paused.

"This is your mind, Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock's eyes widened as he heard the news and Moriarty gave him a smug smile.

"Your challenge is to escape your own mind before it devours you."

A click and the intercom turned off.

Sherlock's breathing suddenly became heavy, and not because of the smoke. His own mind? How…?

"Now, Sherlock, dear." Moriarty stuck his hands in his pockets, "As you just heard, this is your own mind. And _that_," He pointed to the fire Sherlock was in, "is the delete button you constantly use."

He waited for Sherlock to realize what they were doing.

"You're making my mind delete myself." He hissed, looking down at the fire that was still burning him.

"Yes, unless you agree to another project we have for you." Moriarty smiled cheerfully.

"What is it." Sherlock gritted his teeth, the smoke and flames and ashes long forgotten, "If you want to torture me then go ahead, I can take whatever you have planned for me."

Moriarty shook his head slightly, "Oh no, Sherlock, not you," He stepped even closer to the fire, "You know what I'm talking about, Sherlock."

The insane image of Moriarty that Sherlock's mind had created grinned as his heart filled with fear and doubt.

"So it's up to you to figure out how to end it. This is just another case, Sherlock, just another game that you'll enjoy."

"No."

The soft whisper was engulfed by the smoke of his flesh.

"Yes, Sherlock, yes." Moriarty kept his smile up.

"No." He said again, his gaze cast on the mesmerizing colors of red, orange, and yellow all around him.

"Here are the rules, darling," The other man said with delight, "One: You have one thousand and ninety five days. Two: Every day you will see a version of the real one die. Three: When you think you see the real one, you will make contact and try to stop him from getting killed. Four: If you are mistaken and it is not the real person, he will die." Sherlock could feel Moriarty's eyes bore into his brain, "And remember, you may only use the things in your brain, both this one and the one in your skull. Well technically, they're both yours," Moriarty chuckled, "Anyways, be a good boy and don't come into any contact with the clones unless you think that is the real one. Doesn't matter whether it's physical or verbal or whatever. Okay?"

Sherlock looked up and met his eyes, seeing that Moriarty's face was lit up like a child on Christmas morning. After a moment, he smiled and turned around to walk back the way he came and the darkness slowly consumed him.

"Good luck, Sherlock Holmes."

* * *

Even after Moriarty had long gone and the torment of the flames still tore at his skin, Sherlock watched the spot where the madman had disappeared. He was waiting. Waiting for the trick, the moment Moriarty would turn around and walk back and yell "psych!" and have enough mercy to just burn Sherlock to the ground.

So Sherlock waited.

And he waited, letting his subconscious devour his consciousness.

But the detective was out of luck. Moriarty was left to the protection of the darkness and SET, leaving Sherlock and the fire to contemplate game strategies.

_Good luck, Sherlock Holmes._

The words were now an echo with a meaning etched into each syllable.

_Moriarty, _He thought, _I'll give you a trade._

_Me, for him._

* * *

Sherlock Holmes hadn't moved for three hours, and Moriarty was impatiently watching him. He saw the flames dance along pale skin, burning it to a sickening crisp. He saw Sherlock's face angling downwards, his hair covering his eyes. He saw the detective on his knees, as if in a prayer. And to his pleasure, James Moriarty saw water dripping from Sherlock Holmes's eyes and fall into the flames.

Why the hell wasn't he moving?

Oh.

Of course.

The _brilliant _detective thought that if he were to die, his precious John Watson would be spared from the game.

What an idiot.

Moriarty chuckled behind the camera monitor in his office. Pushing a red button next to a microphone, he said softly, "If you die before the game, he does too."

Letting go of the button and watching the camera screen, Moriarty cackled with satisfaction as Sherlock immediately jumped from the fire and ran off into the darkness, his burnt trench coat trailing behind him.

"Oh, Sherlock," Moriarty sighed, shaking his head, "Even you don't know how your mind works."

Then, raising his hand as a farewell to the camera, Moriarty let his eyes droop.

"Goodbye, old friend."


	11. Chapter 11

Sherlock Holmes ran and ran and ran. And ran and ran and ran some more. He couldn't see where he was going, the darkness was all around him.

_John._

The name found its way to the beating of his heart and settled in the back of his mind, but that was where it had always been.

_Keep running._ Sherlock told himself, _Get away from Moriarty._

So he did just that, Sherlock Holmes ran with his skin scorched all black and a ruined coat trailing along with smoke behind him. It felt like empty space, just a big open area with nothing. The ground felt like cement, creating echoes of his footsteps.

SMACK.

The bruise that was probably forming on Sherlock's forehead only added pain to the burns. But what had he bumped into? Sherlock put a burnt left hand out cautiously, feeling the wall that was hidden cleverly in the dark. It felt like bricks. Course, uneven and cold. He moved his hand across the wall to the right, tracing the rough bricks.

Suddenly, his hand ran into something. But not just anything, something…plastic. It was raised up against the wall like a panel and Sherlock slowly let his fingers roam around it.

Another plastic object.

Raised, again.

Wait, could it be? Was Sherlock's subconscious that merciful to grant him this one resource?

Testing his hypothesis, the detective pushed his fingers against the plastic. Immediately, light came like a flood all around him.

The sun had come up.

Sherlock looked around. He was…in London…

The light switch he had just flipped on was the switch to the sun of his subconscious. And along with the sun, there were clouds and a beautiful blue sky, illuminating the modern buildings of his city. Wait a moment…it looked exactly like the day he had been kidnapped… Everything was wonderful, definitely not the regular London weather…

But it was quiet, very eerily quiet.

Each movement that Sherlock made seemed to be amplified by a thousand, but that might've just been that there were no other sounds to mask his own.

But the oddest thing was there wasn't a single person on the streets, the whole city seemed deserted. Sherlock looked around himself and discovered that he had been running on a street, and when the road had turned, Sherlock ran face first into the building ahead of him. Not just any building, St. Bartholomew's Hospital.

Turning in a complete circle, Sherlock examined his surroundings again.

He was in London.

Outside of St. Bart's.

But it was deserted, not a single living person in all of London. No cars honking, no pattering of feet, no soft whispers on the sidewalk, and no sound at all.

His mind had created London without the people.

Everything, the buildings, the streets, the sidewalk, was all exactly the way he had last seen them. He hadn't been to the morgue in a week. But since that time last Thursday, the door had been repainted (John had told him) but here it was, the red covering peeling off as a result of the rain. Exactly the way he had last seen it, old and worn without new paint.

Wait.

Sherlock walked briskly to the left, ignoring the pain of the leftover flames on his skin.

It should be there, shouldn't it?

He quickened his pace as he turned left again a couple blocks down.

This _was_ his mind and he did have a perfect memory of that place.

Sherlock kept his gaze fixed ahead as he walked, but still noticed every detail of the foreign-familiar city.

Car, there. The same one he'd seen on Wednesday, parked at an awkward angle. Clearly a new driver. Probably in their teens or early twenties. Sherlock almost bumped into it the last time he'd went out with John. Speaking of John, should he be there-

No.

What a silly thought.

Sherlock shook his head and as he walked, trying to clear his mind and figure out how this mysterious place worked.

There!

221B Baker Street.

Exactly the way he had left it. Walking up to the door, Sherlock stood hesitantly outside. Was there even anyone at all in the city? And if so, would they be behind this door that he so loved?

Raising a hand, the detective knocked on the door sharply. Two raps, quickly and confidently.

And he stood there, waiting for someone or something to give him an answer (or a partial one at least) to the many questions he had.

Sherlock stood there, shifting his feet impatiently when the door opened. He looked up with surprise and discovered that it was…

Mrs. Hudson.

The spitting image of the landlady that his mind had created chuckled at him.

"Lost your key already?" She smiled her old, crinkly smile.

Then, peering out onto the deserted street, she said, "Slow day for business, is it?"

But Sherlock Holmes was not taking any of her small talk in, instead he was gawking at the only living person that seemed to inhabit the city.

"Oh come in, dear," Mrs. Hudson said, giving Sherlock a worried look, "I see you've been running about, just look at all those injuries!"

When he didn't make a move to step inside, the landlady threw her hands up in exasperation and said, "I'll meet you inside and make some tea while you stand out here."

Then, remembering that he was probably being watched by Moriarty somewhere, Sherlock regained his composure and stepped inside as if this were just a normal day in Baker Street.

Walking up the oh-so familiar stairs and into the painfully home-y flat, Sherlock sat down in his usual chair in the sitting room of 221B watching Mrs. Hudson flit around the kitchen making tea.

After a minute of just watching Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock said carefully, "Where's John?"

"John?" She called, "Who's John? A new colleague of yours perhaps?"

He stopped. Just stopped.

Then, lifting his head, he watched Mrs. Hudson hum a soft sweet melody while making his favorite tea. Realization struck him like a bolt of lightning.

She didn't know who John was, meaning that John wasn't here.

And then fury boiled up inside him.

_John Watson! The army doctor! My flatmate! _

Sherlock wanted to scream, he wasn't used to having all these emotions tossed at him at once. Knitting his eyebrows together, the detective went to deducing.

The Mrs. Hudson in his subconscious was very, _very_ lifelike. She walked and talked and smiled and laughed just like the real Mrs. Hudson. But something was off.

Something about this Mrs. Hudson was off. But she seemed very real indeed when she patted Sherlock's arm and gave him his tea.

Something.

_What was this something?_

Suddenly, "Mrs. Hudson!"

"Yes dear?"

"I need to think."

"About his mysterious 'John' character?"

"Yes. And no." He mumbled softly, the words barely audible.

"Alright, then," She said, walking to the door, "I'll leave you be. But when you're finished I need to check those burns."

"I'm quite alright, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair, "And I will be awhile."

"Well then, I'll just be downstairs if you need me."

And with that, the fake landlady of the fake flat of the fake city left the fake room to return to her fake home.

It was all fake.

Fake, fake, fake.

Absolutely fake-

_I can't think. _

Sherlock got up hastily, muttering to himself. He walked over to the kitchen and rummaged through a drawer below the sink.

"Where are they?" He demanded to himself.

Not finding what he was looking for in that section of the kitchen, he moved to the cabinet next to the refrigerator. Aha!

There they were! Sherlock impatiently grabbed the package out and tore the plastic. One, two and three. Just up on his arm. Then he slowly walked to the sofa instead of the chair and sank down in it. Pressing his other hand to the patches on his right arm, Sherlock let his eyes widen with exhilaration and a small moan escape his lips.

The nicotine coursed through his veins and Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief.

All around him, everything became clearer, the window glass was much more defined, and he could see the creases in the leather chairs and count each page of the book lying on John's desk.

His subconscious had reacted to the nicotine and it was like Sherlock had put on a pair of glasses, but hadn't known he needed them.

_Now, I can think._

Sherlock Holmes closed his eyes and remembered.

He remembered Mrs. Hudson, recalled the laugh lines at the corner of her eyes, each vein on her hands. What was wrong with his subconscious landlady?

Sherlock had an extraordinary memory and to get a detail wrong was very unnerving.

_Think, Sherlock, think!_

He looked at Mrs. Hudson through shut eyes again. Her dress, her coat, her socks, her shoe-

_Oh!_

Her shoes.

They were perfectly fine, everything was perfectly alright with her shoes. They functioned exactly how shoes should. They made noise when she walked. And they were perfectly worn to indicate she had had them for a long time, but not too long.

_Except that they were semitransparent on the bottom. _

The shoes, the familiar black loafers that Mrs. Hudson always wore, were not quite hitting the ground the way they should. Meaning Mrs. Hudson was not the real Mrs. Hudson.

She was a fake.

But a bloody good one at that. And now, he had something that would determine the real John from the fakes.

Sherlock gave a sigh of relief and let the drug take over his body. It was comforting to have something of his real life aid him in times of need.

What to do now?

Relax?

The detective scoffed mentally. Like in his head, not out loud, because he was _in _his mind which might make that a bit confusing.

There was nothing to do.

He could wait.

No.

_I hate waiting. Especially in a London with no people. _

But something in his head (his own, in his own skull) reminded him that this wasn't just London with no people.

It was a London with a Mrs. Hudson that would also try to destroy his best friend.

A London set out to kill John (with a landlady).

John Watson.

"DAMN!" Sherlock roared, hitting the arm rest of the sofa in frustration. He was about to hit the sofa again, when a crackle came from above.

Sherlock sighed. Another intercom message.

"Don't get too bored in there all by yourself!" Moriarty's voiced teased, "SET was kind enough to allow me to start very soon, fifteen minutes, in fact."

The detective raised an eyebrow at the air. Moriarty's voice was echoing, as if it were being amplified throughout all of London.

"I will meet you and him at the place you two first met."

Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows together. It was all too soon.

"And I'll give you a hint for later, Sherlock," He could just imagine Moriarty's grin at that point, "Sentiment."

And with that the crackle stopped and the intercom shut down.

* * *

He was at St. Bart's.

The place where they first met.

The place that Mike Stamford had introduced the two flatmates.

Sherlock walked through the front door and down many flights of stairs to the lab that he constantly used. He walked around the table in the middle of the lab to the worn out stool, and he sat there. Just sitting there, waiting for Moriarty's promise to come through the door.

He had gotten there exactly six minutes early and was now seated in front of many vials and tubes with various substances that needed testing.

Sherlock scanned his eyes around the familiar room.

Wait.

He was just here on Monday, analyzing the reaction of iodine and concentrated mercury when submerged in diluted vinegar.

But none of the ingredients were there.

There was just his microscope with a flake of bark, and documents for a case.

A case…

No, _the_ case.

_The_ case he was working on when Stamford had introduced him to John.

Oh.

_Oh._

They were reliving the past then?

Well, Sherlock would be prepared.

So, he decided to play along. He pulled the microscope closer to himself and pretended to inspect the bark even though he already knew what was wrong with it. No sooner than Sherlock had started to look at the bark, he heard footsteps outside the lab in the hallway.

_Stamford and John. _He thought.

He heard chatter and laughter between the two men and took it as a good sign. But things went wrong almost immediately after.

Sherlock heard a third man coming out.

Stamford and John going silent.

The click of a gun.

Murmurs from the third man.

John's voice, "Go, Mike! Run!"

It took all his willpower to not rush out and take care of Moriarty himself. _It's just all in my mind, _He thought, _Moriarty is playing with you._

He continued to flip aimlessly through the microscope slides as the sounds of struggle reached his ears.

Suddenly, the door burst open. John was held in a headlock with Moriarty on the other side with a gun to his head.

John's teeth were gritted in fear and his eyes frantically signaled "Help me!" to Sherlock.

Again, the detective had to summon all of his willpower to keep a straight face and look at Moriarty instead of John. _No contact, _He remembered. Keeping his face as calm as possible, Sherlock looked up from his microscope.

"Hello," He said in his monotone voice.

"Hello, Sherlock," Moriarty smirked.

John's jaw hardened, "You're working for him then?" He said between clenched teeth to Sherlock.

The detective didn't reply. He kept his gaze on Moriarty, asking him a question with his eyes. _I still have questions about the rules._ Sherlock thought.

"Oh, Sherlock!" Moriarty's eyes widened, "I forgot to tell you, there are exceptions!"

Sherlock's mind was flooded with relief, but he didn't let it show on his face. Instead, he kept his ice-like eyes on the madman.

"Go on," Moriarty said, as if encouraging a child, "Answer him."

The detective turned to John, "Do you believe I'm working for him?" Sherlock continued to keep his uninterested expression on even though his mind was racing with a thousand emotions.

"Yes." Sherlock saw John's eyes go cold with fury as he answered.

Moriarty interrupted and spoke up, "Oh no, Dr. Watson," He paused, "Your life is in this man's hands."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow with mock interest, "Really? This is interesting."

The three men stood in silence when Moriarty didn't reply. There was a tense buildup in the air that seemed to hang directly over John. Even with the two geniuses in the room, no one could say what was going to happen next.

After an eternity of silence, Moriarty smiled at Sherlock, "So? What are you going to say?"

"Go ahead."

* * *

**A/N: So I just found out that a very amazing man has passed away. Many knew him personally and still many more adored his work on television. You will be remembered as a great man with a wonderful heart. Thank you for your dedication, Cory Monteith.  
**


	12. Chapter 12

Moriarty wasted no time or sentiment.

BANG

One little move of the finger and the body of John Watson was down. Sherlock flinched when the sound was made and for a split second he lost his mask.

The sound of a gunshot. The light leaving John's body's eyes. The breath caught in Sherlock's throat.

Moriarty let the body crumple to the floor, the blood seeping out from a hole in his head.

No, not _his _head, _its_ head.

The madman watched with a slight frown on his face as Sherlock's eyes followed the motion. And with the gun still in his hand, Moriarty broke the silence.

"Congratulations, Sherlock dear," He said dryly, "Not the real John Watson. Only 1094 more days to go!"

The brightness in his voice on the last sentence made Sherlock's heart wrench. But still he did not say anything.

Rolling his eyes at Sherlock's distressed expression and cold silence, Moriarty said again, "Another hint for your troubles, Sherlock," The detective's eyes didn't move, "This body here," He pointed to the thing on the floor, "is a memory. And they will continue to be memories for the other 1093 times, not including the real John Watson. If you're lucky, you'll die before you even reach 500."

Another long pause from both of the men.

"I'll leave you to your thoughts then." And with that Moriarty walked out the door.

By walking away, Moriarty had shown Sherlock Holmes mercy. But then again, it was a rather cruel game that he was playing with the detective.

Sherlock was still sitting on the stool when Moriarty left, watching the blood pool around the body. It was gruesome, looking at John's face make that furious expression with blossoms of red sprouting out from the side of his head. It made the detective scared. Very scared. That'd he'd have to see this man die 1093 more times.

1095…why that number?

Why did he have to see John die that many times? Sherlock's brain whizzed.

1095.

That number was familiar.

1095.

Something about it made him want to scream.

1095.

Oh.

1095.

Three years.

1095 days is three years.

Sherlock Holmes would be trapped in his mind for three years.

Watching John die for three years.

Separated from the real John for three years.

The realization made the pain of his heart burn deeper than Moriarty's flames. Sherlock closed his eyes to keep his guard up even though he was alone with the body. _He'll know if I show emotion._ The detective thought, _You were right, Mycroft. Caring is not an advantage._

Letters and numbers and colors and patterns and shapes swarmed in front of his eyes as a sudden blackout feeling rolled over him. Sherlock gripped the table edge to keep from falling to the ground. He clenched his teeth and bit his fought to keep steady.

But even Sherlock Holmes should know never to resist your mind.

And so, the infamous, cold blooded, ice-like man fell over and collapsed onto the ground of the lab in St. Bartholomew's Hospital. Expecting to pass out, Sherlock closed his eyes.

He waited…two seconds…six seconds…fifteen seconds…thirty…

But he could still feel the cold tile of the floor beneath his fingertips and the dry air all around him. He was still conscious. Confusing letters and numbers still appeared in his head, mind you. Sherlock Holmes just wasn't experiencing a blackout.

Still on the ground, Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows together.

Could it be?

Oh shit.

He was in a blackout right now. The pill that SET had given him had forced him into a blackout and landed him in his own subconsciousness.

But the good thing was that he couldn't faint here, so he'd have a little more time to figure out how to get out of this hellhole. He mentally chuckled a bit. He'd just called his own mind a hellhole. So much self-esteem there.

Sherlock knew he couldn't rely on Moriarty to let them go if the real John came and he got it right. And even if Moriarty promised let them go, Sherlock still couldn't trust him to even bring the real John and give him a chance at escape.

_Dammit!_

This was going to be a very tedious three years.

Slowly, Sherlock got back up into a sitting position, while trying to ignore the jumble of confusion in front of his eyes. It was a splitting headache and Sherlock rubbed his temple to try to get rid of it. But there was still the matter of that thing that was bleeding on the ground of the lab. He couldn't see it from where he was sitting on the ground, since it was on the other side of the table. And Sherlock was glad for that.

If he saw the body right now, he had no doubt that the intestines in his body would end up on the floor, courtesy of his stomach. But it was right in front of the door and Sherlock had to get out anyways.

_Just get it over with._

So he did.

Sherlock stood up and walked cautiously over to the body of John Watson.

But then, something in him clicked. Something inside Sherlock Holmes told him another thing about John Watson. Even though this wasn't the real John Watson, Sherlock felt the blow all the same.

_I need you, John._

The four words echoed in his mind, straying above all the other confusion and becoming clearer and clearer with each passing second. They were etched into his very brain, reminding him of who John was and why Sherlock had never deleted a memory of him.

And it told him how Moriarty was playing the game.

Moriarty was more real than Mrs. Hudson was, Sherlock had seen his shoes when he had walked into the lab. No transparency. None at all. But now he knew that James Moriarty was taking his memories of John. And killing them, one by one. All one thousand and ninety five of them.

The first killing, the one he had just experienced, was the first memory he had of John. In the first place they had met. And that was why there was no one in "London", it was filled with memories of John and Moriarty had stolen them all to kill.

Sherlock was still in the lab, and even though he was standing over the body of John Watson, he hadn't really seen it yet. Such a shame, because he was in for a wave of emotions for another human being. That wouldn't be good, especially for a sociopath.

He was chuckling to himself, praising himself in substitute for John that he had figured out part of Moriarty's plan. Killing memories, ah, brilliant.

And then Sherlock Holmes saw it.

He saw the body of John Watson.

He saw the pale, almost-snow white skin of John, decorated with dark red in a pool around his head. The body was in an awkward position, on its side with the right arm stuck out in front of it and the left leg pulled out behind. Sherlock tried to breathe, he really did. But the thing that stopped his breathing was the cold, lifeless eyes that stared straight ahead.

John Watson's brown, blue, grey eyes now held no soul. They were blank and they were cold and they were just like colored ice. And Sherlock felt. He felt compassion, anger, fury, and most importantly, a roaring pain. A pain like no other that would sear through his heart every time he remembered the dead face of John Watson.

But no, he didn't cry, he didn't sink to his knees in despair, no. Sherlock Holmes merely sighed and stooped down to _look_ at his flatmate's body.

Then, reaching out one long, thin, violin finger, Sherlock touched John's cold cheek.

Immediately, at the very exact spot he touched, John turned to ash.

It blossomed from the spot on his cheek to his mouth to his neck, to his forehead, _to his eyes._ His eyes sifted away like sand and only the body's sockets would be left if they hadn't already turned to ash too. And his hands and his feet and his arms and his legs. Although Sherlock had seen much more grotesque and gruesome deaths, he couldn't bear to watch.

And yet Sherlock couldn't tear his eyes away.

He watched as John's whole flesh became the black ash and he watched when the white bone turned dark and he watched and he watched and he watched.

So all that was left now was a pile of ash on top of a pool of blood covered by the clothes that the body was wearing.

But surprisingly, the ash gave him comfort.

It proved that this John wasn't the real one. And that Sherlock was right. Sherlock was always right.

* * *

The detective was running again. Running, running, and running some more. Running back to the flat. Running to comfort. Running to Mrs. Hudson. Running back home.

But most importantly, running away from the body. Away from it. Away, away, away.

And when he got back home, to 221B, sitting on the John's desk was a piece of paper. Good quality too. Written on with a blue felt-tip pen. But not written in haste.

_How did you figure it out?_

_ -JM_


	13. Chapter 13

**A/N: So this might (will) be a boring chapter to some (all), but just bear with me here. I tried to make it as interesting as possible, but this is basically an explaining chapter. The next chapter will be up soon so hopefully the boredom won't get to you guys. Thanks for reading!**

* * *

They dumped him in his flat. _After _they had blind folded him and tied his hands behind his back and made him swear to not tell anyone what he had seen or else he and his best friend's brother would die.

But it's not like he had even seen much, John had only watched Sherlock lie on a counter in the middle of a futuristic lab as the scientists poked and prodded him and rapidly took notes about what was happening. That had been an accident of course, John wasn't supposed to have seen that. So his capturers held out a contract and had a sniper aim a gun at a certain British government official threatening to pull the trigger if he didn't sign it.

Although John didn't have a particular liking for Mycroft, there was no way he could let him get killed because of something he'd accidentally seen. So of course, John had signed the contract.

Had that really only been eighteen hours ago? The mysterious men had untied his hands and pushed him blindfolded into 221B. Then they walked away without a word and left John alone in his flat.

The doctor looked around the flat. Everything was exactly the way he had left it. Except for Sherlock Holmes. The detective was probably off being tested on and being tortured and…

He shuddered.

_Don't think about those kinds of things!_ He demanded to himself. _You're overreacting and overthinking everything. _Then John made himself a cup of chamomile (Sherlock's favorite) and sat down in his leather armchair.

_Sherlock will come back in a couple days all bruised up complaining that it was an absolute bore. _John tried to comfort his worrying mind.

_It's alright. Sherlock's fine._

_He'll be okay._

_He's the great Sherlock Holmes! Nothing will get in his way._

On and on John went, thinking reassuring thoughts to calm his nerves. But on and on went the doubt in the back of his mind.

_The scientists had him unconscious on a slab._

_He wasn't reacting._

_They'll surely torture him to see how he reacts._

_Human testing is never good...or comfortable for that matter._

_It'll be just like Baskerville all over again, except with Sherlock as the test subject._

It really didn't help that the list of negatives was longer than the positives, making John worry constantly. His excuses for not racing after Sherlock were actually very lame, _I don't even know where they took me, it won't help Sherlock if I'm lost, Sherlock's probably already escaped and on his way back here, I couldn't stand a chance against that organization. _John worried and debated about calling Lestrade for a whole twenty four hours, only getting five hours of sleep and working a twelve hour shift at the surgery (but hardly getting any work done).

The remaining seven hours were dedicated to pacing the floor of 221B, much to the annoyance of his neighbors and Mrs. Hudson. Twenty four hours up and only then did John decide to call Lestrade.

_"Greg?"_

_"John? Is Sherlock giving you trouble?"_

_"Well kind of…"_

_"Kind of? Elaborate."_

_"He's been kidnapped."_

Lestrade paused.

Then, "_AHAHAHAHA! You got me there, John! Hilarious, absolutely brilliant."_

_"Lestrade." _John stiffened behind the phone.

It took the Detective Inspector a while to regain himself, but John could still hear him stifling laughter.

_"Yeah?"_

_"I'm not kidding, he's actually gotten himself kidnapped."_

_"You can let up on the act, John, I know he's probably right there being all huffy because I saw right through the joke."_

_"No, Greg, you don't understand. Sherlock's gone."_

A pause of silence and John knew he had Lestrade thinking again.

_"I'll be over in five minutes."_

Then the line went dead.

* * *

True to his word, Lestrade was at 221B in exactly five minutes, having bribed the cabbie with an extra twenty quid.

"John."

Lestrade was standing in front of the armchair, towering over John, who was sitting in the chair. "Tell me everything that happened."

"Alright," John took a deep breath and started to talk, "I came home one day after work in the surgery and he was just tied up over there," John pointed to a spot on the ground in front of the coffee table, "There were two men standing over him, and he was unconscious. Then, a third man came up behind me and had me at gunpoint so I went with him to the car that was parked out front. Once I got in the car, I was blindfolded and tied up as well. After that, I just woke up in some sort of laboratory and he was there too."

Lestrade had an expression unlike any other, a mix between fear and confusion and worry. John took that as a sign to continue.

"I saw him actually, while we were in there, he looked unconscious then too."

Again, John hesitated to see what Lestrade would say. And once again, Lestrade would have nothing to say but give John a look of utter confusion.

"And?" Lestrade pressed.

"And then the same man brought me back here and eighteen hours had already passed."

"No, John." The DI said firmly, "What did you see?"

"I can't say. Told me they'd kill Mycroft if I did."

"What's Mycroft Holmes got to do with this?" Greg furrowed his eyebrows together.

"They just aimed a sniper at him and made me watch from a screen."

"How on earth…?" Lestrade trailed off, "Why not just point the gun at Sherlock?"

"They need him for testing, Greg."

"Testing?!" Lestrade had to hold onto the arm rest to keep himself steady.

"Yeah, but that's just a minor detail. Let's just focus on finding Sherlock now, alright?"

"Just tell me this one thing, John. Why didn't you call me immediately?" The DI had gotten this serious look on his face.

"Thought he'd just come walking through the door any second." John grimaced at his mistake.

John finally let out a huff and leaned back in his chair, as if a heavy burden had been lifted from his chest. Lestrade mirrored the doctor's gesture and looked him straight in the eyes.

"That's it?"

"Yes."

Then, to John's surprise, Lestrade grinned.

"When we find him and you two don't go running into each other's arms with tears in your eyes, I will be very surprised."

John gave him an exasperated look and said, "This really isn't the time to be joking about us being together."

"You don't deny it then?"

The doctor simply gave Lestrade an irritated look and didn't say anything, causing the DI to smirk with satisfaction.

"Well we'll just get to work on this and take you in for questioning a bit later," Lestrade said, making a move towards the door, "Let's just hope that Donovan and Anderson will help us instead of trying to keep him away."

"It's not like we need them." John muttered under his breath.

Greg gave a small chuckle and said, "Sherlock's been rubbing off on you, eh?"

With that, DI Greg Lestrade walked out the door and back to Scotland Yard, where Donovan and Anderson would be throwing a party. John watched Lestrade's back walk down the stairs and heard the door close with a slam and a click. Only then did he realize that during his long explanation, he had never said his flatmate's name. Not once.

_Am I really that pathetic?_ He thought to himself. _I can't even bear to say his name._

With a sigh and a pat on the arm rest chair, John walked to his bedroom and said goodnight to his detective wherever he was. He just hoped that Sherlock would be safe that night.

* * *

John tried to recall everything he could. He really did try.

He described the black car, the model, the year, the leather on the inside, and the way the number plate started with "E7H4". He explained the voice of his capturer and estimated how tall he was. But the one thing they needed was the one thing he couldn't say. John once punched the wall in Lestrade's office in frustration, creating an ugly spot on the wall and giving him bruised knuckles.

But all his work was in vain. They had found nothing. _Absolutely nothing. _And all (well most) of Scotland Yard (okay maybe half) was looking (fine, one fourth) for him.

With each passing day, John got increasingly worried, his frowns a little deeper, the spring in his step a little less springy.

_Come on you stupid git! _John had mentally screamed during the questioning. _Come home so I won't have to put up with all these questions!_

Funny how the detective was the one that usually dragged John home, not the other way around.

_I don't care if his brother dies, Sherlock needs to get out._

And with that reasoning in mind, the ex-army soldier with nerves of steel gave up. John Watson gave up and he told. He told everything about the lab. He told everything about the scientists. From their pristine white lab coats to the tubes against the wall. From the way Sherlock's skin was so pale, he looked dead to the size of the clipboard the scientists were using to take notes.

"There were three scientists in total. One woman and two men. The woman had brown hair, it was up in a bun and she looked about forty years old. One man had barely any hair with glasses and he looked forty too. The other man had black hair and he looked about mid or early thirties. He didn't have any facial hair or glasses and very pale skin."

"The lab was futuristic, it was all white and there were a lot of tubes and different machines all around. Sherlock was on a metal table in the middle and he was just lying there while the scientists took notes…"

When everything was done and told, Scotland Yard immediately went to work. Looking, searching, researching, tracking, investigating, everything.

The case wasn't cold, but it wasn't going anywhere either.

* * *

Two days later and Mycroft Holmes stepped into the front doors of Scotland Yard.

"Well, John, it seems that our consulting detective has gone missing."

John tried not to immediately turn and run away when he heard the elder Holmes's voice. _Oh god, I gave up his life to save his brother who he's never really liked, this won't sit well with either of us._

But to his surprise, instead of resenting John and giving him even more of a cold shoulder than he already did, Mycroft simply looked at Lestrade and fiddled with his umbrella.

"You know, I could be of some use to you, Detective Inspector. The British government is very helpful in some ways."

The doctor had looked bewildered at Mycroft Holmes's statement. "You're offering to help? Even after I gave your life up for Sherlock's?"

"Don't forget, Dr. Watson, you are giving up your own life as well. And also, Sherlock and I are family. Although we haven't been the closest of siblings over the years, I'd like to think of us having a, how would you say, _love-hate _relationship."

An awkward pause settled over the three men as Lestrade and John tried to contemplate what exactly Mycroft was implying, though neither could even guess.

"Well then, thank you Mycroft," John smiled out of gratitude for him, "We'd very much appreciate your help."

And then the trio started to collaborate on ideas and leads, mainly using Mycroft's access to the CCTV cameras around London to look for the black car John had described.

The case was getting better, but it was clear that their kidnappers were experts. John had gone home that day feeling exhausted but satisfied with that day's work.

It was late at night John was in 221B now, trying to relax and think happy thoughts. He had already tried calling and texting his flatmate's phone, but it always went straight to voicemail and the texts were never replied to. It had been almost two weeks since the visit to the lab, and John was getting a little more than worried, which in turn caused the worry to be passed onto Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade.

So he sat there, thinking, wondering, _worrying._

Suddenly, something caught his eye.

A piece of paper.

On the desk in the sitting room.

Nice paper, blue pen.

Two words.

_You told._

* * *

**A/N: This is a revised chapter so if you've already read it, please read again. If you haven't, well that's okay then :) I took** JGHB**'s advice to add a few things so thanks to you!**


	14. Chapter 14

**A/N: Another semi-boring chapter! Thanks for holding out on me though :)**

* * *

_How did I figure it out?_ Sherlock mentally laughed. _Do you really need me to tell you? Aren't you a genius? Didn't you plan this?_

The detective grinned and his ego went up by a thousand when he realized that Moriarty needed him to say how he'd figure it out. Picking up the piece of paper and sitting down at the desk, Sherlock thought carefully about how he was going to reply. Tell him the truth? Or throw the madman off?

Finally, he decided.

Setting the pen and paper down, Sherlock walked over to the stack of books next to the window that had his violin case on top of it. _You're out of luck, Moriarty. _And then he played John's song, the one that flowed through the room like a river and carried cherry blossom petals out in Sussex in the spring time.

The sweet melody rolled around the man playing it, encircling him with an air of peacefulness. Maybe life in his mind wouldn't be so bad.

* * *

"Sherlock Holmes, you get back here right now!" Mrs. Hudson called to him as the detective ran quickly to his room after seeing his landlady at the door with a first aid kit.

"No!"

"The burns will worsen!"

"NO MRS. HUDSON!"

"I'm coming in anyways!" The landlady pushed open Sherlock's bedroom door and stepped inside. She shielded her eyes in case the detective wasn't fully clothed.

"Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson sighed when she found him as a lump under the covers, "I need to treat the burns, dear."

"No."

"I have the first aid kid right here," She said, walking over to the lump, "It'll just be a moment to put on the ointment."

"I said _no, _Mrs. Hudson!" Sherlock's voice was muffled under the sheets but she could still hear the irritation in his voice.

"Well you don't have a say in this!" Mrs. Hudson was getting quite a bit annoyed herself as she ripped the covers off the grown man.

Sherlock was curled up in a ball, his burnt coat and scarf still on and a pout etched onto his face. He scowled when he saw his landlady and buried his head into a pillow to let Mrs. Hudson hear his muffled groan.

"Be quick."

"Thank you, dear." Mrs. Hudson said as she sat on the edge of the bed and opened the kit.

The landlady pulled out a tube labeled "Aloe Vera" and nodded with satisfaction.

"This will do." She said, opening the tube and squeezing some of the clear, viscous liquid onto her palm, "Sit up, darling."

Sherlock grunted with more annoyance and sat cross-legged next to Mrs. Hudson.

"Coat off."

Another grunt.

"Roll up your sleeves."

A groan.

Then, a sigh of relief as his burns got the much needed treatment they didn't know they needed. Sherlock let the motherly touch warm his heart, even though he knew that she was a fake. A fake Mrs. Hudson…at least his memory was good enough to create an almost perfect clone. He watched her wrinkled hand pass over his injuries and her sweet face wince when she got to a particularly bad burn. (And a sigh when she got to the arm with the patches.)

Both of his arms, his calves, and then his face.

"I'll let you handle the rest, dear," Mrs. Hudson said, getting up achingly slowly, "My hip." She looked apologetically at Sherlock when she discovered that he was watching her.

She handed Sherlock the tube and walked back to the doorway, "When I come back and that tube is still half full, you will be in big trouble, young man."

"Fine."

Mrs. Hudson walked away with a sigh. But she was completely unaware of how much gratitude Sherlock felt towards her. She was the mother he never had, the one that took care of him, the one that made sure he was safe and comfortable. Well, there _was_ another person who did that, but Sherlock highly doubted that John was "motherly".

He was more…

Sherlock struggled to find the word as he applied the ointment to his chest.

John was…

The detective thought hard.

John…

Well it always came back to him, didn't it? Sherlock emptied the last of the gel onto his neck. That's alright, he didn't have to figure it out right now. He had three years to think about…John.

The detective curled back up into a ball and pulled the sheets up to his chin.

And when Mrs. Hudson came back to check on him half an hour later, Sherlock Holmes had already fallen asleep to memory of John Watson echoing in his mind to the strong beat of his heart.

* * *

It was 10 o'clock and another brilliant day, and Sherlock Holmes was walking on the sidewalk, having already walked two blocks after trying to escape Mrs. Hudson's vicious attempts to address the wounds and make him eat. It was the second day. Day 2. Numero dos.

What the hell?

Where did the Spanish come from?

It's normally something that Stamford would say… Speaking of Mike, Sherlock had heard him yesterday outside the lab in Bart's, shouldn't he still be somewhere around here? Come on, lad, let's go find him.

Fuck.

Where was all this intolerable diction coming from?

And suddenly, the detective started to whistle. A merry, bright tune. Sherlock stopped himself. What? He hadn't even known he was whistling until the song had reached his ears. He didn't even know that he _could _whistle. Christ.

Sherlock looked up at the sound of footsteps. Heavy, but the person was light hearted.

"Sherlock?"

The detective raised an eyebrow in surprise as Mike Stamford walked around the corner and rushed up to him. Sherlock could see the almost too-small coat hug Mike's middle suggesting that it was uncomfortable, but a bright grin was set on his face.

"Mike, hello!" He tried to sound as happy to see the professor as possible, but it was rather difficult, seeing as Stamford had invaded his mind.

"Oh good lord, Sherlock. What happened to you?" The detective gave Stamford a confused look, not really knowing what he was talking about, "The burns." The professor explained, waving a hand at Sherlock's face.

"Oh, that," Sherlock said casually, "Just a little mishap at the flat."

Mike Stamford gave a knowing nod, though the detective could see the professor's suspicion.

"Not many people out and about, eh?" The professor tried to make small talk, looking around at the deserted street they were standing on.

"Yeah."

Mike nodded as an awkward silence passed over the pair of men.

"Oh! Sherlock! I forgot!" Sherlock looked up with slight interest.

"Yes?"

"I witnessed a kidnapping yesterday!"

"Oh?" The detective pretended to be surprised.

"Yeah! I called the coppers and I suggested you and the DI there said he'd ring you up." Mike said, his words hurried, "But he called back a little later saying you weren't picking up your phone. He said he'd keep trying, but there was the kidnapping to think about."

"Really?"

"You think you could help out?" The professor looked at Sherlock expectantly.

"Of course, but I'll need to know the details."

"Yeah, you should head down there, I'll call and let them know you're coming."

"Thanks." Sherlock tried his best to be polite, but unfortunately, working with humans was not his forte and he wasn't sure how this "manners" thing worked anyways.

"Hey!" Mike said as Sherlock started to walk away, "Wouldn't a busy bloke like you always have your phone? Where is it anyways?"

Sherlock had almost completely forgotten about that. He patted both of his coat pockets. Nothing. "Must've left it back at the flat."

"He called you yesterday."

"Probably ran out of battery."

"Oh."

Sherlock didn't reply to that and another awkward silence settled over them.

"Well I'll just call to let them know you're coming," Stamford broke the silence.

"I'll be off then."

"Right, see you around Sherlock."

The detective turned and walked back the way he came, the way to Scotland Yard.

Mike Stamford. Another person besides Mrs. Hudson. Maybe his city wasn't as deserted as he first thought. Maybe he just wasn't at the right places. Maybe the places he went to were the wrong places, the places with no people. Hopefully Lestrade would make an appearance at Scotland Yard. And hopefully Anderson wouldn't be there.

As Sherlock walked away from Mike Stamford, he slowly regained his own thoughts and his own actions. The urge to say things like "lad" and whistle were gone, replaced by his own egotistic ways. There was something more about his mind, perhaps more than one thing. But for now, he'd figure things out one at a time.

Sherlock thought while he walked, more than usual at least.

Oh goodness, he was daft, wasn't he?

The closer he got to someone in his mind, the more he would think about them, making him act like them, walk like them, talk like them, all that stuff. And when he got farther and farther away from the person, he would think about them less and thus return to being himself again.

The detective mentally groaned.

_You better not be there, Anderson. _Sherlock gritted his teeth as he walked. _Same goes for you Donovan._

* * *

Sherlock didn't need to be told twice that he was getting close to Scotland Yard. Aside from the fact that he could see the building that was down the street, Sherlock felt an urge to rush down there, as if he were late for work.

_Such a freak, who gets to work so late?_

Well there was Sally.

_Idiots. Idiots everywhere. _

And now Anderson.

_You're the idiot, Anderson, there's no one around. _Sherlock retorted angrily to his own thoughts.

He walked in through the front door and stood there, feeling not the slightest bit unnerved when three pairs of eyes simultaneously looked up at him.

"Look who finally decided to show up." Donovan crossed her arms.

"Just shows how much you need me." Sherlock smirked.

"God, Sherlock!" Lestrade exclaimed as he looked up from his paperwork, "Your face!"

"Yes, Lestrade, it's my face."

"No I meant the burns! God what happened to you?"

"Inconvenience in the flat."

"Uh huh." Anderson gave a sarcastic look, "Yes, Sherlock Holmes is so strong that burns just mildly inconvenience him!"

"You've just implied that I am indeed stronger than you." Sherlock said, raising an eyebrow.

"Sarcasm, freak, it's sarcasm." It was Donovan's turn to speak up.

"Stop it! You're all giving me migraines." Lestrade had his eyes shut tight and was rubbing his temple. Then, turning to Sherlock, he said, "I've tried calling and texting you at least five times already. Where have you been!?" The DI handed a thick case file to Sherlock from his desk and gave him an exasperated look. "Here's the file, we'll go over to the scene in a minute after you look over those."

"Don't get too excited by this one, freak." Sally said, she and Anderson giving Sherlock a hard glare.

"Where is everyone else?" He said casually, looking around the deserted office.

"Just get to work." Anderson pursed his lips and gave a look, clearly judging Sherlock by the burns on his cheek.

Sherlock smirked and opened the file. On the very top were the pictures. He nodded in satisfaction. The "body" was exactly the way he had left it, a bunch of ash, blood, and clothes. There were sixteen photos in total, each one a different angle and distance from the grotesque pile. Sherlock flipped through the documents, the questioning of Stamford he just skimmed, and the rest was just pointless observations.

The three other people in the room were watching Sherlock. One with a glare, another with an impatient eye roll, and the other had a look of expectancy.

"Take me to the scene." The consulting detective said after approximately seven seconds.

Two minutes later, the four of them were sitting in a police car with Lestrade driving, Sherlock sitting shotgun, and Donovan and Anderson sitting not-so-happily in the back. The car ride was silent, but not just because the coppers and the detective weren't talking, the whole town was deserted, the streets empty, the shops all closed.

Even though there was no one at all, Lestrade still insisted on stopping at every red light and slowing down for every speed bump. And each time, Sherlock would sigh with exasperation and ask why he didn't just go on ahead. Lestrade would always reply with, "I'm part of the police force, Sherlock! I have to obey the laws!" Which always earned him an impatient look from the consulting detective.

It was long and tedious and Sherlock hated every second of it.

Finally, the small group arrived at St. Bart's and although Sherlock knew it better than anyone in the group, Lestrade led the other three to the familiar lab.

There, Sherlock Holmes found everything in the exact same position as he left them.

"You didn't tell Stamford it was a killing then?" Sherlock had barely stepped into his lab before raising his question.

"No, poor bloke said he knew the guy, didn't want him going into an emotional breakdown, said his name was John something. We don't even know if those," Lestrade waved a hand towards the pile of ashes, "are his." The Detective Inspector nodded his head before realizing what Sherlock had said, "Wait! A killing you said? How do you know that?"

"I'll run a DNA test with the blood," The consulting detective said, ignoring Lestrade's last comment, "Must've been Anderson's fault that you didn't get to it already."

"Well why don't you bloody stop right there!" Anderson said angrily, putting his hands on his hips, "We've already done the test and _I_ was the one who delivered the results!"

"If you've already brought the results, then how can you not know who he is?" Sherlock gave Anderson his most innocent expression.

"_Because_," Lestrade stepped in between Anderson's glare, "There's a face, but not a name, and we tried contacting the government 'bout this but no reply yet."

_So you've stolen almost everything about John from this place, haven't you? _

"No name? Let me see."

"Well you're being unusually calm about all this." Sally stalked over to a pile of papers on the lab table and flipped through them until she found what she was looking for. Donovan pulled out a single sheet of paper and handed over to Sherlock with a scowl.

They were right.

A face, but not a name.

There was John's picture alright, with his basic information. Age, country he was born in, height, weight, etc. All that was missing was his name. In the place where "John Watson" should have been printed, it just said, "Unknown".

Sherlock handed the paper back to Donovan with an expressionless gaze.

"Well?" Lestrade raised an eyebrow at the detective.

"Wait. I need more time."

Sherlock could feel the three bewildered coppers look at him simultaneously. He knew that they were all thinking the same thing: _He's never needed more time before. Is this the case that'll ruin the infamous Sherlock Holmes?_

"Wha-" Anderson started to speak, but Lestrade knew Sherlock the best out of the three.

"SHH! Let him think!" The DI didn't dare move his eyes from Sherlock, who was simply looking down at the grotesque pile.

"Thank you, Lestrade." Sherlock murmured as he bent down to pretend to inspect this "mysterious" case.

The four people in the lab were a very odd group. Three of them were huddled against the wall, trying to inch as far away as possible, as the fourth walked around a disgusting mess of blood and ash and clothes. Sherlock had a frown on his face and Lestrade, Anderson, and Donovan matched his facial expression but it was clearly with disgust and bewilderment.

"Hey what's that?" Donovan asked suddenly, pointing something on the cabinet above the sink on the opposite side of the room.

The other three people in the lab looked up at Sally.

"Over there," She said, walking over to the spot she had pointed at, "What's this? Writing?"

And it was, each letter was deeply cut into the wood. Donovan squinted her eyes as Lestrade and Anderson followed suit. Sherlock stayed where he was by the mess, but turned his head to see what the three coppers were looking at.

Then, Lestrade nodded his head in realization and turned around, back to where he was standing before.

"Back to work everybody."

Anderson and Donovan nodded in the same way as Lestrade and looked at Sherlock with expectancy. Their eyes seemed to say, _What are you looking at? Get back to work, you psychopath._

But instead of complying, Sherlock walked over to the cabinet to inspect the writing.

"Oi!" Lestrade waved a hand in annoyance as Sherlock walked away, but the detective hadn't seen him, "We've got to figure this out!"

"You mean _I've_ got to figure this out. Your tiny brains couldn't solve this case even if your lives depended on it."

Lestrade just scoffed in an attempt to mask the truth.

"Get back to your weird procedure and solve this case, freak." Sally stepped in front of the cabinet, covering it when Sherlock came over to inspect it.

"Move."

"Get back to work."

"I could just walk out right now," Sherlock mused, looking casually bored, "I don't have to do this."

"But you won't, freak. We know you'll always come." Donovan pursed her lips.

"Let me see it."

"It's nothing of importance." Lestrade said, "You already know what it says."

Sherlock Holmes whirled around, whipping his ruined coat against the stool that was next to him on the floor. "What?" His voice held a tone of harsh curiosity.

"Yeah, you put it there."

"No, I didn't." Sherlock squinted at Lestrade and gritted his teeth.

"Yeah, you did." Greg walked over to where Donovan was protecting the cabinet like her first born and said, "Donovan, just let him see, we can get back to the case quicker."

"Fine." She huffed.

Sherlock and Sally watched each other with daggers as she moved aside. The detective didn't really know what he was expecting, but it certainly wasn't what he saw. The lettering was printed, and very neat, almost as if it were typed into the cabinet. There were only three words, one sentence, and it said:

John knows me.

-SH

The consulting detective's eyes widened.

_How did you figure it out? _James Moriarty's words echoed in his mind. The words on the wall were exactly what he had planned to write back to Moriarty, in response to his message. Sherlock hadn't replied by writing, but he had thought it. And now his thoughts were printed onto the cabinet in the lab where a memory of his had died.

_Moriarty, you bastard._

The villain in his mind had taken all his memories of John, and now he was putting up Sherlock's thoughts for everyone to see. Wait, this was his mind. His own mind. There wasn't actually anyone else in here, just his own creations. He'd created Lestrade from memory, Mrs. Hudson, Stamford, Donovan and Anderson too. Wait (again). Moriarty. Did he create him too? His soles weren't transparent like the rest of the people that he had created. So did SET put him here?

Oh good god, this was all so confusing. And what was worse was that he couldn't even get used to his own mind.

Sherlock heard a growl from Donovan, "You're doing it again, freak."

His eyes snapped up and he watched with fascination as new letters placed themselves below the others. Each letter looked as if an expert carpenter was carving them in the wood, the strokes were slow and careful, creating a font.

"Sherlock! I thought you were interested in this case! Stop doing that!" Lestrade groaned but Sherlock Holmes was completely mesmerized.

After a couple minutes, the message now said:

John knows me.

-SH

Moriarty, you bastard.

Once the invisible carver had finished, Sherlock reached a hand up and gingerly touched the letters.

"Hold up," Sherlock looked at the talking Lestrade, "isn't that 'John' the same bloke that Stamford was talking about?"

"No."

"Who's Moriarty then?"

"No one."

"Sherlock Holmes you're insufferable," Sally spat, with Anderson glaring at the detective, "You don't even have the decency to solve this case for this burnt man."

A sigh of exasperation came from Anderson when Sherlock didn't reply but simply kept looking at the words. After a full four minutes, the consulting detective nodded his head in finality.

"I need to go back to my flat. Call me if anything else happens."

"Why would anything else happen?" Lestrade looked bewildered.

_Damn._

Sherlock walked towards the door.

_Don't worry, _his subconscious told him, _none of them are intelligent enough to figure out this whole 'John' situation._

He stepped outside, not hearing the coppers' protests.

_And remember Sherlock, it still hasn't happened today, you better get ready._


	15. Chapter 15

**A/N: Sorry if it gets a bit confusing, just review or message me if you want me to clear things up. Also, I really enjoyed writing this chapter and I hope you guys like it too :)**

* * *

John dreamed of Sherlock that night.

_He was running._

_"Sherlock!" _

_The screams echoed through the night, the stars and moon reflecting off of Thames._

_"Sherlock!"_

_John kept running along the riverside, running, running, running. _

_"SHERLOCK!"_

_Then the doctor stopped. His breath was heavy and his lungs were on fire, and John sweat profusely. _

_"Sherlock…" _

_The name died the second it had left John's lips._

_He actually didn't know why he was doing what he was doing. He didn't know how he got here. He didn't know why he had been running so hard. All John knew was that it had something to do with Sherlock and he needed to find his flatmate as soon as possible. The river was so beautiful, unlike during the day when you could see the pollution flow through the murky water. _

_John had stopped panting and looked up into the night sky._

_"Sherlock." _

_He'd once said that although he didn't care for the constellations he did appreciate them. Perhaps Sherlock was somewhere admiring their beauty. They really were amazing, the stars that is. They shone with the moon when nothing else did, they brightened the darkness with shimmering light and they were the things that lovers kissed their partners under. _

_"Sherlock."_

_John was alone on the riverside, not a single soul in sight. No lights, no cars, no late night chatter. Why?_

_"Sherlock."_

_The ex-army doctor kept walking, his eyes searching over every space that he could see. Where the hell was that detective?_

_"I need to get to him before it all goes wrong."_

_John had no idea what he was talking about, but he knew it was bad, very bad._

_"Sherlock."_

_Dr. Watson was cold. He was cold from the cool midnight air and cold from the thin jumper he was wearing. But mostly, John was cold in the heart. His heart that had held Sherlock for so long was frozen over, the ice had found a home in John's beating organ and didn't want to leave. _

_John pleaded with the ice, "Please, please," he said, "Please leave, I need my best friend back." _

_But the ice kept refusing saying that he didn't deserve Sherlock, saying that Sherlock had wasted his brilliant mind living with his stupid flatmate. Saying that Sherlock was off somewhere, bring greatness to the world. Didn't John want Sherlock to succeed?_

_John kept walking. _

_Putting one foot up, then the other, and the other again. _

_Left, right, left, right._

_Of course he wanted his best friend to succeed, but wasn't he already content with his life at 221B? Wasn't he happy with John? _

_No, the ice said. No, Sherlock isn't happy. He can't be restrained by you. Let him fulfill his true potential._

_"SHERLOCK!" John screamed into the night air, "Sherlock…"_

_He's here, the ice spoke again, he's here alright, he just doesn't want to be with you. Leave, just leave now. You're not wanted. _

_"John."_

_The doctor snapped his head up, making a full rotation to look for the man that had occupied his heart before the ice took it over._

_"Sherlock!" _

_The detective stepped out of the shadows into the moonlight and into John Watson's view. John let a small gasp escape his lips. Sherlock Holmes was limping, his left leg clearly hurt. His trench coat was torn, and blackened from being burned, while his distressed navy blue scarf hung loosely around his neck. But what captured John's attention the most was his face. _

_Sherlock Holmes's lovely, beautiful, pale face. _

_It was now home to innumerable scratches and gashes that were still bleeding and even more scars beneath the wounds. His lips were also blooded, from being so chapped and his eyelids were fluttering from fatigue, bringing him in and out of consciousness in split seconds. There was one long gash that went from the bottom of his right cheek bone to his forehead, curving over his nose. That wound was probably the worst of them all, though John could not say because he couldn't even imagine what kinds of wounds his coat was hiding. _

_But what John could say was that his detective had lost at least seven kilos, which he could figure out just by seeing Sherlock's even more prominent cheekbones. He had no idea that was even possible, and if frightened him, considering Sherlock was the thinnest man he knew when he was healthy. _

_John Watson slowly stepped towards Sherlock._

_"John."_

_The doctor searched the detective's eyes, but not really knowing what he was looking for._

_"John." He repeated, gingerly taking a painful step towards John, making them barely half a meter apart._

_The doctor struggled to find words to say. John wanted to say everything at once, saying everything he felt, everything he had ever wanted to say to his detective. But at the same time he had nothing to say, he couldn't find anything to say. It was like the lonely nights when he had tried to write letters and tell Sherlock everything but couldn't bring himself to put the words on paper._

_Lonely nights._

_John was remembering._

_Remembering what had happened, why he had to find Sherlock, why things could never be the same again._

_"They're going to kill him", Mycroft had told John. _

_"Why can't you just find him, then? You have the whole British government," John had replied. _

_"The British government wants my brother dead, Dr. Watson."_

_ Mycroft had shown the most emotion then, a look of pure devastation and depression etched onto every line on his face and every beat of his heart. And the moment John had seen Mycroft's heart, he'd run out the door and searched. _

_"John." Sherlock repeated, looking at the tears in his doctor's eyes._

_"John."_

_But he stayed silent._

_"John." Sherlock stepped closer, "Please answer me."_

_"Sh-Sherlock." The doctor managed to get the one word out. No, not word, name. He managed to get the one name out._

_And then there was a smile on the detective's face. A painful, real, true smile. The cracks on those chapped lips reopened and the smile became bloodied. But neither one of the two men standing on the riverside of Thames cared. _

_"You're real."_

_With that Sherlock Holmes collapsed into John Watson's arms, letting himself fall into the strong muscles of the ex-soldier. John took that as an 'okay' and allowed his tears to fall freely down his cheeks, the salty water eventually landing in his detective's dirty, matted hair._

_"Sherlock!" John cried out, hugging his best friend to his chest._

_The doctor sat down on the ground and propped his detective up on his leg with the detective's face towards his own. Sherlock's eyes were fluttering, a battle to keep full consciousness. _

_"We're going home." The doctor murmured, looking at Sherlock's face full of blood._

_The detective didn't reply, but instead closed his eyes. John held his grip on his best friend and grabbed Sherlock's wrist, feeling the small pulse that didn't even seem there. _

_"Hang in there, Sherlock." John said softly again. _

_But wait._

_The pulse._

_The pulse was getting smaller, lighter, the time between each beat getting longer and longer. _

_No._

_Please._

_Sherlock opened his eyes ever so slightly, keeping his pupils on John. _

_"It's okay," His voice was raspy and so soft that John had to lean in to hear the words, "Just a blackout, John. Just a blackout…I'll….come…to…"_

_Then Sherlock Holmes shut his eyes for the last time._

_"SHERLOCK!"_

John Watson shot up in his bed in 221B, sweating through his shirt and panting like a mad dog. It…was just a dream. Oh thank god, John sat up and rubbed his face, trying to get rid of the pain that came with Sherlock.

He took ten deep breaths, each one clearing his mind a little more than the last. Three weeks, it had been three weeks since…the incident. Those three weeks had been passed in cautiousness, for fear that he or Mycroft would be pulled away suddenly and left to the deathly clutches of the kidnappers. But he knew it wouldn't be too long before either him or Sherlock's brother disappeared.

Pain filled his head and his heart, giving the doctor an aching longing for his best friend. And suddenly, John remembered that song, the crystal clear, soprano, violin-like song. The one that sounded like Sherlock. He hummed it softly to himself in the middle of the night, the sweet melody filling the dark room. The doctor recalled the way the song caressed the soul, giving the heart comfort when there was no one else to.

It helped, the song.

At least there was one part of Sherlock that no one could ever take away. But he didn't even know if Sherlock knew the song. When the detective returned he'd teach it to him, maybe hum it and Sherlock could write the notes down to play on his violin.

When he returned.

When Sherlock Holmes stepped foot back into 221B, safe and sound.

When that day came, John would teach the song to him.

And when that happened, everything would be alright again.

* * *

**A/N: The song that I've been describing is The Cinematic Orchestra Arrival of the Birds and Transformation: watch?v=MqoANESQ4cQ **

**I know it's a whole symphony and not just a violin but I really love it, especially the main melody. Thanks for reading!**


	16. Chapter 16

**A/N: I'm so sorry it took a terribly long time to update, I've been on vacation and writer's block and just arghhh. (A very hectic summer) But here's the next chapter and I hope you're not too disappointed with this one. Thanks for reading :)**

* * *

Sherlock looked at the thing in front of him from the shadows he was hiding in. Moriarty was too insistent on torturing Sherlock so he would never bring out the real one on the second day. And yet, the madman was deadly cunning, and that was reason why Sherlock was here when he called him instead of letting this copy disintegrate while he played the violin in 221B. So what was wrong with him? This thing looked so lifelike, so real. Well, it was a memory, but even memories could be dangerously incorrect.

There was a red dot to the thing's chest, it's face looking frantically around for a way out.

"Sherlock!" It called, "Where are you?"

Of course.

Moriarty had used the information Sherlock gave him to pluck out a better memory that would persuade the detective that he was indeed the real John Watson. But of course Sherlock would not be fooled. Not that he expected Moriarty to try that hard on the second day, but his ego still rose just the tiniest bit.

There were bombs strapped to the thing's chest and the water reflected onto its face as the dark illuminated the pool even more so than it already was. _Memory. _The word tattooed itself onto his heart. Sherlock pasted the thing. There was a digital clock put behind the thing, right across from where Sherlock was hiding. It had red numbers, and it was counting down. When he had first gotten there, the clock said 10:00. Now there was only one digit left, and it was counting down fast.

6

Sherlock smirked silently and watched the thing with a gaze of cold steel.

5

There was actually no point to stay and watch, the detective already knew that that thing was a fake.

4

Wait.

3

If these memories could be distinguished so easily as fake from the real John, did that mean there was something wrong with them?

2

Was his mind wrong? Were these memories not perfect? Or did Moriarty just alter them when he put them out here for Sherlock to see?

1

The sound of a gun and the thing fell to the ground.

Sherlock Holmes had nearly convinced himself that he had no love for a fake, though his body betrayed him again and his face still grimaced with pain all the same. Then, the detective slowly retreated from the dark light and walked back the way he came.

* * *

He was sitting in the flat of his mind in the middle of the night. And the detective was just sitting, with his fingers steepled under his chin. Well he wasn't just sitting, he was thinking. Thinking of what had just happened. It was his normal pastime, though what he usually thinks about will remain a mystery to us all. Except this time wasn't quite like the others. This time, Sherlock was thinking of something that had always taken him by surprise. Something, no, someone, that was constantly occupying his mind.

Sherlock's mind.

Now that was a curious place to be in.

But the detective's mind was cluttered, untidy, messy…

He needed to go to his Mind Palace.

So Sherlock Holmes closed his eyes and let himself collapse into a trance, travelling along the well-worn path of his childhood memories to the massive stone structure that loomed in front of him. He put a gloved hand on the elegant brass handles on the great oak doors of his castle and tugged.

It refused to open.

With his eyes closed, Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows in confusion and pulled again. The door still didn't budge. Sighing in front of the building, Sherlock hesitated for a moment, and then pounded furiously on the tall doors with a clenched fist.

He could hear the echoes of his strength vibrate through the doors.

Sherlock waited, and waited, and waited. For at least a minute. Then, his impatience made an appearance and the detective turned around with a growl and walked away, through the woods of his many secret childhood experiments, past the tree where Mycroft had told him he was a sociopath under, and back into the cage that was his mind.

The consulting detective opened his eyes and inhaled a breath of exhilaration as the world came back into focus, a sensation he always felt when returning from his palace.

But this time, he hadn't solved anything. Well that was inconvenient.

He sighed in frustration, it was like he was missing a limb, he had no access any information he'd stored in his Mind Palace.

Sherlock got up out of his chair and picked up the violin his mind had supplied him with and played a short burst of rapid, terribly out of tune notes to release his bitterness and anger.

_You are in your mind._

The detective's subconscious was speaking to him again.

_And?_ Sherlock pressed.

_You are in your mind._ It repeated.

_Yes, I am trapped in my mind. That's hardly news to me. _Sherlock gritted his teeth and tried not to be impatient.

_You are in your mind,_ it said once again, then, _Mind Palace._

"Oh!"

Sherlock Holmes jumped out of his chair with sudden realization and grabbed his tattered coat and scarf, screamed a goodbye to Mrs. Hudson (with no regard that it was midnight and that his landlady might have been sleeping), then stepped out onto Baker Street. It was a crystal clear night, no clouds marred the sight of the full moon as the detective ran across the fake London, turning around in circles, whirling around, back tracking, _looking. _

"Where, where, where?" Sherlock muttered to himself as he took long strides down the sidewalk.

The moonlight shone down on him, making Sherlock Holmes's pale skin look like freshly fallen snow. His dark mass of unruly curls flopped back and forth as he shook his head. There was no one around him, London was as deserted as the first time he stepped foot into his mind. Mrs. Hudson was back at Baker Street, Lestrade would be trying to make amends with his wife (assuming she was here though she probably wasn't), Donovan was probably sleeping over at Anderson's and Stamford at his own house.

Sherlock walked with loud stomps, expressing his frustration. He furrowed his eyebrows and marched forwards down a random street without really looking at his surrounds.(Noticing yes, but not looking.) And with that, the detective found himself at the entrance of St. Bartholomew's Hospital. Walking up to the door, he saw that switch he'd used only a couple days ago. Sherlock studied it, the switch was still flipped on, perhaps that was the reason why the moonlight was so bright.

There was something about that switch that intrigued him, but he couldn't quite place his finger on it. Sherlock stood there, trying to figure out what was wrong with that small plastic light switch.

Suddenly, a figure stepped out from the alley down the street and walked towards him. Sherlock's eyes snapped up, watching the man take arrogant strides over to the entrance of St. Bart's.

"What are you doing here?" Sherlock feigned sudden interest and asked the question with a pleasant tone.

"Just showing you what you need to know, darling." The figure smirked as he had reached the detective. Then, with one fluid motion, the man reached a hand up and flipped the switch off.

Both men were enveloped in darkness. Sherlock wasn't alarmed, it was his mind, after all. Then the man's silky sweet voice reached his ears.

"Look up, dear detective."

So he did. Sherlock lifted his head and let his eyes widen, praying that Moriarty couldn't see his surprise. There in front of him, loomed a massive stone…castle. He could barely see the outline of his palace, his eyes not adjusting to the darkness just yet. But it was clearly there, his Mind Palace had taken place of St. Bartholomew's Hospital.

Sherlock looked back down, only to discover that the ER doors of the hospital had morphed into his beautiful red oak doors with those smooth, worn out brass handles. The streets and shops had all become a dark forest, surrounding his palace, and Sherlock could feel the pavement become soft dirt under the soles of his shoes. And the concrete walls of St. Bart's had changed into the granite bricks that looked oh-so lovely with the trees of his memories.

"There's a toll." Moriarty's voice moved Sherlock's attention from his castle to him.

"Of course." The detective said without a trace of surprise.

"What was wrong with the memory this time?" The madman's smooth voice flowed softly.

"John would never call out for me." And with that, Sherlock Holmes turned his back.

The detective almost didn't notice James Moriarty's silhouette retreat back into the alleyway, back to wherever he resided in Sherlock Holmes's mind.

Would it open this time? Sherlock's heart pounded against his wishes. Why was it here? Why did it take place of St. Bart's? Why did the light have to go off in order for his Mind Palace to appear?

The detective hesitantly put a gloved hand on the Victorian handles, and gave it a gentle tug.

It creaked open.

Good.

Everything was still impossibly dark but Sherlock knew the way around his Mind Palace better than the back of his hand. He stepped one step inside and breathed a sigh of relief as the smell of wood reached his nose. Sherlock ran his fingers along the wall to his right and felt for a small plastic thing on it.

Finally.

Flipping the switch on, Sherlock watched as twelve lamps illuminated the gigantic, circular foyer. The room that greeted him was dome-like, with walls painted that light crème color and the floor covered with elegant Italian marble tiles. It was impossibly tall, almost like a ballroom with the ceiling curved (dome-like, remember) and a painting of chubby cherubs in the sky, their bare bottoms only partially covered by the clouds painted.

As each lamp came on, Sherlock could make out another switch on the left wall. Of course! How could he forget? So the detective turned in his still dimly lit greeting room and flipped the second switch on.

An enormous glass chandelier, a beautiful one, really. Right in the center of the rounded ceiling (and the cherub painting), hanging down very elegantly, dousing the whole room in its bright light. The chandelier was tiered with layers and layers of precisely cut glass tear drops, finally ending at the bottom with a single, tiny tear.

Now Sherlock Holmes could see numerous doors leading from the single room to who knows where. There were labels, but they were too far away to see, of course Sherlock didn't need to see them. He already knew what each of them said, just not to where they led.

Ah!

That door.

The one just next to the center door to its right. The one labeled "John".

Sherlock shut the grand door behind him and took long strides across the enormous room to the door. It was a plain door, just simple polished wood, and painted black. Such peculiar things, doors. Opening and closing to either allow or deny entry to sometimes forbidden places. Doors led to intimate rooms and resting places and happy, warm memories. But there was a particular door that this one in front of Sherlock resembled. It seemed like the door…to his flat.

Oh.

The detective grasped the doorknob with complete familiarity and pushed open the door without the slightest bit of hesitation.

Sunlight streamed through the window of the sitting room even though it was nighttime outside the palace. There were books and papers and all of Sherlock's little oddities scattered around on the carpeted floor. However, the bookshelf on the left wall was-

"Sherlock?"

He looked up sharply.

"Back so soon? I though you went to the morgue. You usually spend hours there."

"There was little to do."

The intruder chuckled, "Of course you would think there's nothing to do in a _morgue."_

Sherlock gave a tight nod and crossed the room to sit in his leather chair of 221B. Picking up his violin, the detective began to play a slow, soft melody that could capture the heart of anyone who listened to it.

The song was the perfect distraction.

The perfect distraction that allow him to examine the man with the sandy-blonde hair and hideous jumper and military status that was standing in his copy of 221B.

"Would you like some tea, Sherlock?" The man called from the kitchen.

Sherlock didn't reply.

"I'm going to make you drink it, anyways, you know. I'll bet you haven't eaten or drunk anything in at least a day."

As the man reappeared in the sitting room with two cups of tea in his hands, Sherlock ended the song gracefully and pulled the bow up off the strings without so much as a twitch of emotion on his face. The shorter man handed Sherlock the cup from his left hand and settled down in the chair opposite the detective.

He looked at him.

"Thank you, John."


	17. Chapter 17

**A/N: Okay so I finally updated. *Phew* Just wanted to say that I'm so sorry that I was on hiatus for so long without tell you guys, sometimes writing just doesn't come to me. But I got this up so I call that progress!**

**...**

**I was actually writing another story so if you guys could check it out, it would mean the world to me :) It's called 'Peace of Mind' and yeah. Hope you guys like this chapter (sorry it's so frickin short) and please take a look at the other story! Thanks for being so patient :)**

* * *

"We've found Sherlock but we can't tell you where he is, for the purposes of my brother being kept safe. You see, Dr. Watson, Sherlock is being held in . . . let's say an institution, where the organizers will not hesitate to shoot him. I advise you not to get involved, Dr. Watson, but be rest assured that I will handle this problem and bring my brother safely home. Please, take my word and do not try to look for him. But as you probably know, this is not a suggestion. Stay where you are. Goodbye, Dr. Watson."

The voicemail ended and John sank slowly down into his chair.

Sherlock had been missing for six weeks now, and Mycroft just expected him to 'stay where he was'?! Well absolutely fucking not, he wasn't.

The doctor didn't notice the cameras in his flat following him as he pulled a duffle bag from his closet and packed a few days' worth of supplies. And he definitely did not notice the small red light that appeared on the base of the camera as he carefully tucked his gun behind his jacket.

221B fell silent as John stepped out the door.

* * *

"Thank you, John."

"No problem." The man with the blonde hair smiled warmly at Sherlock.

"What day is it?"

The man who was John but wasn't at the same time didn't even look fazed as he sipped his tea, "20th."

"Month?"

"November."

"Year?"

"2010."

Sherlock nodded and watched his cooling tea as he lifted his bow to the strings of the violin once again. _Going back in time, now, aren't we?_ The detective let serenity wash over him and he thought of Moriarty.

Moriarty, Moriarty, James Moriarty. Oh dear, he was getting sloppy, wasn't he?

A moment later the man sitting opposite of Sherlock slumped forward in his chair, dead. Looking at the man, Sherlock kept on playing, but a smirk crept on his face. _Tsk, tsk, oh so sloppy. _

Time slowed and Sherlock's eyes took in everything, the almost-golden wood from the sunlight, the plops of tea drops dripping from the man's fallen cup, the dust particles in the air. But most of all, Sherlock watched the air ripple in front of him in slow motion, the bullet slicing through the air like a rock plunging through water. It parted for the piece of metal, a clear pathway straight to the detective's head.

A moment after the sound of a violin clattering to the floor was heard and Sherlock Holmes had a lifeless smirk plastered on his face. He slumped in his chair and the detective's last thought was this: _Yes._


End file.
